Tonight, I wrote a long entry in my journal. My first since the Faculty Center Fire of April 1, when I lost most of my books and catalogs and objects that I cherish. I also watched the finale episode of Gilmore Girls. I missed the before, as life got in the way. I am sitting in my darkened room, because my light burned out. I am also listening to The Smiths’ Louder than Bombs album. Tonight is a good night. Not perfect, as life is. But it is a good night.
For the next few months, I will be in Seoul. Ruin indeed is the road to transformation. I applied for the research fellowship a week after the fire happened. I was just so heartbroken. I meant to apply for this fellowship at one point. But then, the fire was the push I needed to just do it. I didn’t know if I would get it, my interview was not great because Skype kept on getting cut off. But a month after, I heard word that I got accepted. I’m in. Five months in Seoul.
I was not a flawless transition. I missed my apartment. I missed my partner. I missed the food that my partner prepares. But it felt good being here. It felt good moving—learning new things, experiencing life in a different way. I’ve always known that I want to live in different places throughout my life. I moved to Manila when I was 16 to go to college. I moved to different cities since then. I even moved back home for a couple of years. A part of me feel so lost sometimes, not knowing where home really is. But a bigger part of me love this sense of freedom. I love moving around. I just do. And I do not see myself stopping.
I should be writing more about what I’m learning here. I failed two dictation quizzes in Korean, but earlier today I finally got a 7/10, a barely passing grade. The language was an adjustment but I think I’m getting the hang of learning it. I finally passed a dictation quiz, didn’t I? Maybe it will bet better. Or I certainly hope so. I’m really not the dictation type and I do not like the pressure and stress that apparently comes with the territory of Korean classroom experience. Well, things do get better, eventually.
The apartment is right above a metro station, which means noise. But it also means convenience. And the first week I had here was spent trying to make a homey place for myself. Now, I think it is. We’ve visited quite a number of museums and galleries that I know I should write about. And I say this a lot but I really hope I will get to it. I’m full of travel stories since 2012 and I am partly afraid that the stories and memories are slipping away from me. Or maybe things that I will never forget are the ones that really matter. I don’t really know. I will figure it out.
Maybe the stories will come out of me like Marcel Proust’s Swann’s Way came out from him. Stories, memories, and disjuncts. Maybe I will write it. Maybe I won’t. Hopefully soon, or maybe not. Too many maybes. But for tonight, I’m listening to The Smiths. And it is a good night. And I hope there would be more nights like this. Or many nights where new memories are formed. Or maybe simply a night that I can call a good night.
She stepped inside, uncertain. That café has caught her eye in the past week, but it was too rushed, too quick. Now, she’s alone, with no appointments to fulfil.
There were people ordering their morning coffee, and she stood for a moment, observing. The price was listed, and though most of the menu is in German, she understood familiar words—espresso, kaffe latte, cappuccino…
There were pastries as well, most of which, unpronounceable. But by the look and smell of it, delectable. It was too good to pass up.
She approached the bar and the nice lady greeted her in German. She smiled and said “hello.” It signalled that she doesn’t speak the local language. As the coffee lady doesn’t speak much English, she tried to communicate “What do you want?”
“Kaffe Latte.”
“Kaffe Latte?”
“Yes,” and then pointed to a particular pastry that she wanted to try.
The coffee lady gestured for one and then nodded.
The next hurdle was for here or to take away. The coffee lady pointed to a chair then to a door, asking the question. She responded by pointing to a chair. They smiled at each other, exhausted.
Numbers are next. Hand signals once again sufficed.
Finally, sitting down, she fully took the café/bakery in. The drinks menu are handwritten in chalk behind the counter, popular Italian drinks were understandable, the rest were not. She can only wonder.
She then observed the different breads and pastries, some she’ll get to try in the days to come. This will be her breakfast place. The coffee lady will grow accustomed to her.
The smell was wonderful. The entire place, tiny as it was, was infused with the smell of fresh coffee and buttery pastries. The coffee was strong and nice, the pastry flakey and soft. It was a good beginning.
People came and went, signalled by the jingling of the bell by the door. The café was right by the U-Bahn. She assumed that they were about to start their day, just like her.
Roughly a month after, spring will begin and they will have one table outside. But for that moment, its cold and snowy. She brought her dishes back to the bar, as she heard was the polite thing to do, smiled and said “Thank you.”
The bell jingled as she stepped out into the snow.
====================
She walked inside a bar, confident. It was a sea of black coats, crowding the bar. It was a minuscule place. The temperature is picking up but the wind is still cold.
She squeezed her way to the bar, near the barista, determined to be heard.
The smell was intoxicating. Bitter black coffee was wafting through the air. Fresh hot pastries were making their way from the kitchen into the counter, right in front of her.
“Cappucino,” she said.
There was no menu, no way to know the price. But with all the locals, speaking and ordering in Italian, swarming the bar, quickly drinking their coffee and eating their pastry, she assumed its a local hub and wouldn’t be expensive.
He told her the price she needed to pay, and she asked “How much?” in English. He smiled and realised she was not from around there.
Standing up in the bar, drinking her breakfast cappuccino, she couldn’t stop herself from pointing at the cannoli.
“Crema o cioccolato?”
She thought for a second and said “Crema.”
It was heaven. The warm, light, sweet cream oozes out of the light and crispy pastry sprinkled with powdered sugar. She ate it in seconds, gratified.
She pointed at the cannoli again, saying “Cioccolato?”
The barista laughed and gave her a chocolate cannoli. Again, heaven. The rich chocolate oozes out as well, out of the same flaky pastry. She gauged which is better of the two.
The hot, fresh pastry smell continued to waft through the air, combined with the strong, fresh ground coffee. Invigorating.
She knew she should go. She should step out and catch vaporetto to start the day’s adventure.
Yet, she stayed, and pointed at the cannoli again, saying “Crema.”
The barista simply gave a hearty laugh and she laughed with him. “Prego,” he said.
She bit one last time into paradise, thinking she may never have the like of it again. This is how breakfasts should be. Always.
She caught the bartender’s eye and greeted him, “Grazie.”
He once again laughed and said, “Prego.”
She stepped out of the tiny bar, into the cobbled streets, to catch a vaporetto. She’s still smiling.
====================
The prompt said we should go out to a café and observe, but I don’t have the time to do that today. Instead, I wrote from my memory. I tried remembering my café adventures, in the perspective of another person observing me. I hope it worked. I also don’t know if I’ve completely eliminated the adverbs here.
I took a photo and I wondered what Georg Sand is trying to say to me. I knew it was in German, but I had no idea what it’s trying to say. Or why it’s there. It’s in a beautiful, tiny green bridge right by the Hua Lamphong Main Train Station in Bangkok. There were a few locks similar to it, but nothing like the hordes that you’ll find in Paris.
We crossed a bridge and found ourselves in Chinatown. I let it go then, as Ian and I explored the different sights, sounds, and smells of that side of Bangkok.
Yet, I remember that bright pink lock, and that note. I wondered.
Who looks for love, does not find it.
She surprises us when we least expect it.
Much love to our First Anniversary.
(Georg Sand)
I wonder who Georg Sand is. What is his life like? How did he meet his love?
Did they meet in the train station as they catch a train to Chiang Mai?
Did they travel as partners or lovers and explored Bangkok as my partner and I did?
So many possible stories, yet I can’t seem to find one and explore.
Did they simply get off at Hua Lamphong from the airport and crossed the bridge to go to Chinatown and head to their hostel?
But why leave that lock at that bridge? It is engraved, as if they prepared for it.
====================
Georg first noticed Maria at the airport. They crawled their way through immigration at the Suvarnabhumi airport, amongst the chaos of tourists and travellers like them.
Eventually, they made their way to Basement B, to get on the airport link, on their way to the city.
The people didn’t thin, instead, locals and foreigners alike grew thicker, often jostled together, as the train made its was to the city centre.
They got out at Phaya Thai station and figured out their way to Siam Station, where all the city lines meet. It was struggle to go from the sky train down to the MRT underground, asking for directions with words they cannot pronounce.
Tired and stressed, they caught each other’s eye. And laughed.
They started talking.
They were both on their way to Chinatown, where their hostel was located. It was a long train ride, but they eventually found the Hua Lamphong Railway Station.
It was a beautiful Art Deco structure first established in 1910, renovated in 1998.
They walked past the taxis and tuk-tuks, determined to find their hostel by foot. It is a beginning of an adventure after all.
They found a tiny bridge that would take them to Chinatown, about to go their separate ways.
Georg asked Maria to lunch, he was hungry.
They crossed the bridge together and found a hawker that sells some crab fried rice and lemongrass juice.
====================
I’m not a fiction writer, but I imagine two people meeting this way. Their travels creating an encounter, eventually making them take a decision. Do they continue on together, or do they go on their separate ways? George and Maria had lunch, then what? I for one don’t know. But a year later, there was a pink lock on the green bridge.
This exercise is tricky. I’m not sure if this is exactly short. But I remember that lock that I found when the prompt asked me to imagine a letter. And now, here we are.
Also, if anyone out there speaks German and English, can you help me out with the translation? I used Google translate and it is inaccurate at best.
I still feel the cold, dry air that freezes my lungs. The bright, white snow that blinds my eyes. The bare trees… A sense of wonder.
This is my memory of Tiergarten in Berlin. I’ve written about this place several times before. I will admit that I am not over it. And I will never get over it.
I was walking this public park, akin to a forest in my book, while listening to James Morrison’s album “Songs For you, Truths for Me.” I played it on loop, for a reason or another.
“If this is where we ended up, then I refuse to be so hard on myself this time…” Over and over.
Whenever I play this album, I am transported to the snowy Tiergarten. Getting lost in the slippery paths. Looking at the frozen lakes. I am in my black winter coat again, hugging myself in the cold, tears falling. I cry, not in sorrow, or not just in it, but also in wonder and disbelief.
Everything felt so beautiful. And magical. Every nook, crany, discovery.
I crossed small bridges across the frozen waters. It’s as if I’m a snow princess, discovering her kingdom, escaping the bounds of the world.
I saw statues and monuments, one of a couple dancing. I stood and wondered, if I would ever dance that way, in great abandon.
I saw a locked garden and I wondered about it. I imagined sparkling fairy parties inside, that humans are not allowed to interfere.
I saw a musician’s monument. I listened to Mozart and Beethoven’s compositions in my mind. The power of their music resonate across the white landscape.
Before I bid adieu, I saluted a man on horseback. I wonder who he is and what he’s done to be memorialized in stone. He bade me a goodbye too, as I walked out of the strange land of snow, back into Berlin’s concrete.
====================
“Sing me to sleep, sing me to sleep, I don’t want to wake up on my own anymore. Don’t feel bad for me. I want you to know, deep in the cell of my heart, I really want to go.”
Everyone looked up The Smith’s Asleep when the movie “Perks of Being a Wallflower” came out. I am no exception. I read the book when I learned of its existence through the movie. I bought it as a birthday gift for myself.
I listened to Asleep and it was on loop for days on end.
I am transported to Charlie’s world. To my world.
Sorrow. Release.
Pain demands to be felt, as another book would say. And we all have pains. Sometimes, you just need to own that pain. Feel it. Relish in it. Recognise it. Honour it.
It is only upon fully feeling such pain that you would be released from it.
I’ve been described as a wallflower. I’ve been called that to my face. And I have learned to own it. After all, there is a lot to be learned by being a wallflower.
I may not be as tragic as Charlie, but we all have our tragedies. Life would simply be incomplete without it.
Sorrow. Release.
And yes, I am not a tragic story anymore. Life is wonderful.
=====================
“You were to me that night, everything I always dreamt of in life.”
It was always a dream for me to go to Europe. I will go on and on and on about it until you are sick of me perhaps. But when a far-off dream becomes a reality for a girl from a small town by the mountainside… There is forgetting. Only remembering. And dreaming.
I recently watched Before Sunrise and Before Sunset again. And I dreamt again.
I played Julie Delpy’s A Waltz for a Night on loop for a solid afternoon. And its on loop again now.
It’s as if I’m walking the cobbled stones of Paris. Shakespeare and Company is no longer in its original location but I see myself having a conversation with Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Gertrude Stein. I wonder what I would talk about with the American expats in Paris. Wine, coffee, beer? Travels? Philosophy, literature, paintings?
I remember the small, crowded bookshops that I discovered in Paris. Often, you have to go to an underground basement where most of the books are. It was so full of books from floor to ceiling without an apparent organisation. But when you talk to the owner, he can guide you to the books you are interested in seeing. It may not make sense to you but once you’re in the right section, all the books relate to one another. It was personal. I didn’t really get to buy anything, but the proprietor doesn’t seem to mind, as he’s happy to talk to me about where I’m from, what I’m doing there, and what kind of books I’m interested it.
Spring was breaking and though there are no flowers yet at the Tuileries, it was a charming place to hang out in. You can grab a sit and bask in the sun and cold air. There were hordes of people passing through, tourists going from the Louvre to L’Orangerie, or even to Place de Concorde to walk the Avenue Champs Élysées, I imagine. But what’s more enjoyable are the locals—sitting, relaxing, having a sandwich and some wine. If I knew, I would’ve brought some and had my own picnic by the fountain that is still off.
They say Les Deux Magots is now a touristy spot. But I’ve observed a lot of locals there still. Sipping wine or coffee, reading newspapers or books. Early spring is still cold. With nowhere to go until my late-night flight, I asked them to stow away my bag so I can hang out at this historical café. It was one of the best afternoon that I won’t regret. I sat there, had a glass of rosé and an enormous macaron from Pierre Hermé. I wrote in my journal and observed the people. I ponder how it would be like to converse with Pablo Picasso or Simone de Beauvoir while sipping coffee.
I envision myself, walking the streets of Paris, talking and finding love. And no, I did not find love or romance, I did not find a Jesse then. But I walked along the river Seine and yearned for it.
And for now, Julie Delpy is still on loop. With a different love story.
====================
This assignment is a challenge. Instead of fifteen minutes, it was two hours. It wasn’t necessarily free writing as well. I needed to look certain things up. And yes, I do want to develop a writing habit. And I’m slowly forming it again. I find that the best way to write is in the morning, right after breakfast. I love music and its challenging to find the three most important ones. I don’t think these three are the most important songs in my life. But they are the ones that I remembered and they transported me to a different world. A world that I hope to share here. Sometimes its a disjointed world, a sad one, and a happy one. Memories, dreams, and wishes.
(I worked on this post some time ago. It went to my blog folder and I wasn’t able to work on it since then. Now, it’s St. Patricks’s Day, the day I arrived in Berlin two years ago. Time goes by so fast, I still feel like I was just there. It was one of the best moments of my life. Let me reminisce today. It’s the beginning of summer here in Manila, but ever since Berlin, I always remember the snow falling when summertime rolls in. There’s always a bit of sadness mixed in with the joy of that memory.)
I’ve talked about my first snow. It’s been two years, yet the memories are still so vivid in my head. I don’t want to let it go. At least it is not so painful to remember now. It is still there. In my mind, I still have not given up hope that I shall be back.
View from my window, Main Station Hotel and Hostel, Quitzow Strasse
We first realized that it is snow when it suddenly grew cold. Our first reaction was that it was raining, until it dawned on us that it was in fact, snow fall. It was my first. And it was beautiful. We had hot apple cider in a café near the TV Tower, wondering if the TV Tower would indeed turn green for St. Patrick’s day. But as we’re in Europe, darkness takes a while. We head back to the hostel before darkness fully consumed us.
Street of Berlin
The next day brought forth more snow. It was supposed to be early spring but the snow decided to stay. In my mind, I think it was for me. I’ve always dreamed of snow after all. It was freezing cold but everything looked so bright.I breathed in the air, sharp and clean, taking in Berlin. I was afraid at first, afraid of getting too cold, afraid of getting lost. But I’ll get over that. After all, I did believe that the snow was summoned for me.
Berlin Cathedral and TV Tower
I was afraid to enter the forest until someone took me. I still remember the crunch of the snow under my boots. My boots are warm, but not exactly built to walk through thick snow. I was shown where to walk, how to walk. I was taught not to be so afraid of getting lost. One can see the movement between the trees, that is where they main road would be.
Walking Tiergarten
We even saw rabbits popping out of the snow. Yes, rabbits. Or maybe hares. I really don’t know the difference. But they are adorable. Maybe they are trying to find something to eat. Or maybe they just need exercise. I wouldn’t know. I think they just popped in to say hi. It is for my remembrance. Have I grown so vain? Forgive me, I am letting my mind and my fingers loose, so that I can unearth these memories. Part of which, to share.
Walking Tiergarten
I will spend a lot of my days exploring the forests of Tiergarten, each one as memorable as the last. I planned to go to a lot of places but I felt so drawn here. It was magical. It resonated in my spirit. A month later after my snowy travails, I shall see Tiergarten again, in early spring. I saw memorials that I’ve seen before. I will see a closed garden open itself up to the public. In there I felt my heart soar. I felt my spirit freed.
View of Siegessäule at Tiergarten
For once, I am alone, in a strange place, with just a few people and no map to speak of, and yet, I felt free. I was unafraid. I listened to music and felt my heart soar. I felt like I belonged in a place where I barely knew anyone. I wish to go back. And the best I can imagine is that maybe someday.
Frozen lake at Tiergarten
What if that someday never comes? As my disquiet heart asks me sometimes. Well, at least I have these memories. I think this memory will last me a lifetime. Altered as it is, as memories go, but the best part is that there is something wonderful to remember.
I finally got my domain back. I had some financial and practical restrictions when I was due to renew my domain. When I can finally do so, I am being charged a lot in terms of penalty. As I do not have a budget for that, I let it go, hoping that it will be released in time. Now is that time.
I’ve had trouble writing in the past two years. I think the fear finally got to me. I’ve been battling with that fear for quite some time. I fear that what I write is not good enough, that I am not good enough. Then, I read Lippy’s writing about creating. The important thing is to keep on creating. No matter how bad you think it is, you must keep on going. This really hit me hard. Keep on writing. Even if its bad, even if it needs improvement. It won’t improve, it won’t be good, unless I write again. And I shall write again.
It was a beautiful past few years though. I went to a lot of places, met a lot of people, and had a great time experiencing new things. St, a friend of mine, told me once, that maybe I just need to experience these things so I will have a lot of things to write about when I have the time. Now, I intend to make that time. I hope I can translate all these great learnings to words. Maybe words wouldn’t be enough, yet, I will translate what I can.
I am still unable to finish Marcel Proust’s Swann’s Way. I’ve picked it up and left it several times already. But I shall keep on reading it. It is inspiring me to write again. Details of my life and travels may get vaguer in time, but it changed me irrevocably. I want to use Proust in recalling these memories. It is a journey and it cannot be rushed. But moving forward, no matter how slowly, is important.
I now keep a Day in a Page journal, a gift from my partner Ian. Its helping me write as well. I fill it with thoughts and reflections. I may not write in it everyday, but I do try to catch up. I fill pages from my memories, even if its been a few days past. Memories will never be perfect, but what keep there can be perfect. Its as close as we’re ever going to get.
I’ve been out of the writing and blogging loop for quite some time. There were highs and lows and everything in between. One thing’s for sure, I felt stuck. I simply couldn’t write. Then I decided to just not to take it too hard and take life as it comes. And it did come. Maybe I couldn’t write because I needed to experience all the things that I experienced. I let the experience take over, I let life take over. And it was wonderful. For now, this is my attempt to go back. Maybe I can write again. Maybe I give to breathe and life to the past year or so that was experienced, but remained unwritten.
Barcelona, April 2013
In a nutshell, though I don’t know how I could fit stuff in a nutshell, I’ve been around and just experienced new things. There are some things that will no longer be included in the narrative because some things are just better left unsaid. Also, words can be often misconstrued, and to avoid that, silence is just simpler. So there are words, and there are silences.
Berlin, March 2013Ruins of Angkor Thom, November 2013Sunset by the River Seine, Paris, March 2013
Travel. Literally and figuratively. Earlier entries hinted heavily at travel, and such travel experiences are something that I would always carry with me. Some are unexpected destinations while others were dream destinations that at some point I have doubted if I will ever reach them. But I did. The first wave was in Chinese territories–Taipei and Hong Kong–both for conferences. The next wave was central Europe. I received a grant to participate in a conference and I simply asked the organizers if I can get my ticket booked a month after the fact, after all, it fell on vacation time in Manila. So it happened–Berlin, Paris, Barcelona, Bilbao, Madrid, Pisa, Florence, Venice, Milan, Rome, and then back to Berlin– five weeks, four countries, ten cities, and it was wonderful. I fell into deep sadness after that, as I am no longer surrounded by art and history, coffee and pastries. Every city is asking for a story that I am yet to write. I still am hoping that I will. After that was my long-awaited Thailand travel. I explored Bangkok, the capital, and with different stories and circumstances, reached the North East–Nong Khai, Khon Kaen, and Udon Thani, and the North–Mae Sai, Chiang Mai, Chiang Rai. I saw the Mekong River, crossed the land borders to reach Burma or Myanmar (depending on your political standpoints) and even Cambodia. I even got to travel locally. I reached the Visayas for the first time–Boracay and Bacolod. I did the easy traveling and lounging in Boracay while I ate and relaxed in Bacolod. Writing about this makes me feel so overwhelmed. And honestly, a tad sad. I want to be on the road again. I always want to be on the road again. This is why writing about travel is difficult, it makes me long for my home in transit.
ARSENAL Playgroup, Kira’s Birthday, December 2013
But being home is also just as great. I picked myself up and managed to let a number of people into my life. Friends became family and at the same time I felt closer to my family. The university felt like home since I first stepped here in 2001 and though there were challenging times, it still feels like home to me. I’ve had difficulties in some places I’ve stayed at but I’ve stayed a year in my current apartment and I haven’t faced any serious issue so far. Except maybe that the rent is a bit steep and really cuts through my monthly budget, but that’s how it is in the village. At least I am near work and I can walk to the jeepney stop or even all the way to the university, if I feel inclined to. The neighborhood is great and food places are popping all around it, which is important since my partner and I love to eat. We just do.
Pahiyas, 2014
Yes, I do have a partner now and I am grateful for his presence in my life. I’ve always been told that I am just too smart to be able to sustain a romantic relationship. But when it came down to it, my partner told me that what first attracted him to me was my mind. And though it was far from instantaneous attraction, he told me that he knew he’s never met anyone like me from the first time we met. And vice versa. I do my best not to divulge so much of our personal life, but sometimes, I can’t help my own writings.
DAS Junior Faculty, 2014 (Photo from Eloi Hernandez’s Instagram)
Career-wise, I felt that I sped-up, then slowed down. Neither of which is bad, just different. I was able to write essays for an encyclopedia we are all working on. I did some very interesting interviews, details of which I might or might not end up divulging. I wrote for a gallery exhibition for the first time and was asked to curate a solo exhibition (of which I am currently working on). I stopped running after international conferences so I can sit still and work on my thesis, something that I really must do. It was frustrating and challenging, but a lot of times, also very fulfilling. I passed on some great opportunities, such as trying for a semester abroad and going for a prestigious art writing contest, simply because I didn’t feel like it was time. I am still trying to sit still. Even as I write this blog entry, it is challenging.
Inside the Musée d’Orsay, March 2013
I want to reach a balance. Whether or not I will be able to do it, I have absolutely no idea. Will I do great? I hope so. Though I don’t think I can feel too bad about life even if I tried. I hope the universe doesn’t take that statement as a challenge. It has been challenging, but I think the difficulties led me to a path that I need to be in. I still am grateful that this life is such an adventure. Where it would lead me to is still a question, and I am more than happy to find out.
The illusion of passing time. Inside the Musée d’Orsay, Paris, March 2013.
My first day in Berlin, I wanted to find the East Side Gallery, a kilometer or so of what is left of the former Berlin Wall. It was March 17, 2013, St. Patrick’s Day, and David Hasselhoff was supposed to be here in a protest against the destruction of the Berlin Wall. A and I never made it though, we got lost in the S-Bahn, took the wrong train in the wrong tracks (or something like that). It was actually funny. By the time we figured some stuff out, we were too tired and too cold, we just took hot apple cider in Alexanderplatz. I found the East Side Gallery on another day though, through directions given by another A. It was a powerful experience.
I took the wrong exit in the S-Bahn at the Ostbahnhof, so it took me a while and a walk in a tunnel to find it. Eventually, I did find the East Side Gallery. I took the walk from the other side first. The graffiti on this side is more personal, it tells of stories, colors, words, and names. It is not as formal, as the one facing Ostbahnhof. From this vantage point, you can see where the conflict lies. Developers are creeping in on the former Berlin Wall. This piece of land may one day be luxury condominium units. It is highly possible that I may never experience this walk again, as it might take me a few years to get back to Berlin. I kept on wondering how it felt to be divided by this wall, and how it reminds Berliners and every single one of us of the pains and lessons of a time past.
There was still a protest going on, though I am not exactly sure what he is protesting. Is it to save the wall? Is it about this particular image? I don’t speak a word of German, though I wish I did. He is free to do this now. Even if we don’t exactly win what we fight for in this life, it is still a good feeling to have the freedom to protest and resist.
One thing that really surprised me in the early part of the walk is YAAM. I wasn’t exactly sure what it is. I googled it later and saw that this is an Afro-Carribean Artist Community and this is supposed to mimic a beach. Sand and snow isn’t exactly the easiest surface to walk on but it was fascinating. Most of the shops were closed and I just had breakfast anyway, but there were a few places that were open–and they were playing reggae music. Even back then I knew there was something here that reminded me of Bob Marley.
There are a lot more photos I want to show of YAAM, but for now I’d say this–someone called to me, “Don’t fall pretty lady!” I really was having trouble walking in the sand+snow. I was afraid at first, but there were a few people and most of them are nice, and are smiling. And mostly just listening to reggae music. I just never really thought I would find this here.
This is one of the really popular image of the East Side Gallery. I even saw it in my Lonely Planet Guide. There’s a lot of people trying to take their photo with the wall. But this day was so cold, my hands were shivering and I can barely hold my camera steady. Good thing I just took my handy digicam for this travel. Its small, light, and capable of capturing the details and colors of my experiences. It is the memory that I try my best to provide. I can say I have never had so much visual and color overload in my life. It was a kilometer of colors, art, stories, histories and emotions–on two sides of the wall.
It would take several blog posts to cover the East Side Gallery alone. I know other people has taken a lot of photos of the wall, but I can’t help it, I don’t think I can leave these images behind. Given the knowledge that this wall may disappear before I can go back, I want to tell the stories as much as I can. I’ve only ever seen graffiti like these in photos, but it really looks three-dimensional. The nameplate on the car tells the story of ’89 too. And from the graffiti that added to the art, this is the wall that keeps on evolving with the times. Once it was used for repression, but now it is a space for artistic freedom.
There were a lot of faces that can be found on the wall, and there were very few that I recognize. I only know the basics of German history and not much about their contemporary life. There were too many things that I don’t understand, but it is something that I still cannot help but appreciate. Who are these smiling people and what stories do they tell?
Something about this image spoke to me. It is of two doves carrying away the Brandenburger Tor (Brandenburg Gate). It is quite moving. And as I’ve mentioned before, people tend to add their own graffiti, their own stories to the image. The largest letters here says “Free Palastina” and I’m wondering if it is about Palestine. I met Palestinians for the very first time at the Former West Congress. We’ve had good talks and I’ve learned of some of their struggles. It is not easy for them to leave the country and what they experience in airports can be ghastly. Their convictions are strong and impressive. I wonder if it would be possible for me to see Palestine one day, they did say it is possible, but I know it won’t be that easy. But maybe someday.
One funny thing about the East Side Gallery is the souvenir shop. I wasn’t allowed to take photos inside. I don’t really have much shopping money for my travel as Europe is expensive. But I bought some parts of the Berlin Wall that was destroyed. Yes, they sell them. Yes, they say its authentic, but I have no real way of proving that. I wonder, when the time come that the entire East Side Gallery is destroyed, would they run out of the parts of the wall to sell? I learned about a week later when I was in Paris that they did take down part of the wall already and I was grateful that I was given a chance to see it before it was destroyed. A part of me wonders, will the memories be destroyed along with the wall?
This is the side of the wall by the Spree River. I saw some people taking a boat trip, though I never got the chance to take one. But in winter, I can hardly imagine being on the river, as walking along it is cold enough. Admittedly, I was also thinking of the expense, after all, this is on the first leg of my trip and I’m yet to see the season change. There were a lot of lives, deaths, histories, and stories along this wall. It is a marvel that I even got here to experience this. It may not be here the next time I am, sometimes, we just can’t stop change. Building may rise and the wall may be obliterated, I just hope that the memories wouldn’t. Sometimes, even pain should be remembered, so that the lessons learned would remain. But only time could ever really tell.
I have more photos and stories of the wall, but it will take some time to make its appearance from my mind and my notes. This story is just a beginning of many beginnings.
**edit: Also, its my blog’s 4th year anniversary. So, I took this time to blog about something incredibly special.
La Sagrada Familia led me to Barcelona. As I would later learn, there is a whole world out there to discover. Its a comparatively small city, but is full of culture and character. I got there at the break of spring and La Sagrada Familia is the first structure I went to discover. The short walk from my hostel to La Sagrada Familia charged me with enough visual excitement, I didn’t stop walking until late at night for dinner with friends.
As I said before, I feel like I have a million travel stories. Since it was Antonio Gaudi’s birthday a couple of days ago, I unearthed this photograph among the thousands that I took in Europe. I learned about La Sagrada Familia in my art history class and if I remember correctly, it was cited as an example of Gothic architecture. This is the time I learn that art history is indeed relative. Gaudi’s architecture may be known as Gothic architecture for most art history books, but in Catalunya, it is known more as Catalan modern architecture. That is indeed something. The use of organic form in architecture was unique for Gaudi in his time and indeed, there is nothing like the feel and vibe of his architecture anywhere else in the world.
Getting to Barcelona, I learned a little bit more about their history and culture. Barcelona is in Catalunya, and Catalunya is a place of its own. It has its own language and a unique culture, different from the rest of Spain. Even ordering coffee–like the café au lait vís-a-vís café con leche, depending on who you’re talking to. I know café au lait is French, but there seems to be a relationship between the Catalan language and French, though of course, they are actually near France. I’ve also seen the Catalunya flag outside many houses and buildings, a friend told me that the history is complicated, but some still believe that Catalunya should be its own country. Not very different from the story of my country I guess.
La Sagrada Familia, up to now, is still unfinished. It would be a decade or more before we truly see the completeness of Gaudi’s vision. Too bad he is no longer around to see it. But I think it would make him happy to see how much his works are beloved and are still part of everyday life. As I said, La Sagrada Familia led me to Barcelona, one of my favorite cities so far, and I am grateful. Hopefully, I can return someday.
Oh, and thanks again to Google Doodle, that’s how I found out about Antonio Gaudi’s birthday in the first place. I hope I’d be able to write more of my stories soon. The mind and our memory can be so fickle, and I would hate to forget.
Portia Placino 