The Punt, the Porter, and the Post-grad

It has been the warmest English summer in 20 years. The old-timers seem perplexed by it all: the clear days and starry nights when you can roam outdoors unencumbered by a jacket. They wax nostalgic about summers when the sun never emerges from behind clouds, and when constant rains nourish the gardens but keep you penned inside with a book and a pint of ale. They can tolerate days like that, and even seem satisfied when their jaundiced expectations are fulfilled. But this, the incredible beauty of weeks and weeks of perfect English days, is almost too much to handle for the old men and women who expect the water to start falling at any moment, who look up and scan the boundless horizon for the low, shady clouds that this year refuse to appear.

Winter’s darkness couldn’t be further away. The excitement and vitality of May, June, July, August, and September has come in all forms.

For the first time in more than three decades, the national election resulted in a hung parliament, where no single party won a majority of seats. The Conservatives and Liberal Democrats formed an unlikely alliance to share power, and David Cameron moved into the Prime Minister’s office at Number 10, Downing St.

The World Cup stirred passionate hopes and bitter skepticism for England supporters; the dream ended in embarrassment this year with a 4-1 loss to Germany.

Music festivals, street-side ice cream vendors, Pimms on the river, long lovely Saturdays turning to sweet, brief summer nights.

Over the next few weeks I want to share a few vignettes with you. I want to show you how my affection for this place and the people in it has blossomed; how Cambridge has intractably inserted itself into my brain and being. And then, after I’m through falling in love with this city again through the writing, I’ll tell you why I must leave.

First up: The Punt, the Porter, and the Post-grad.

………

The day, like so many before and after it, was intoxicating. 75 and sunny and I could almost smell the freshly cut grass wafting through the library window and filling me with restlessness. I took frequent walks in between writing paragraphs for my thesis. I find that I work better that way, with a short burst of a couple hundred words followed by a stroll.

On Tuesdays, the Cow offers two pizzas for the price of one, but you can’t get an odd number. Because of this, HY, Aurelie, Gareth, Martin, and I spent an inordinate time trying to decide the how to split an even number of pizzas between five people, with negotiations finally resulting in three pizzas between Gareth and I, and one each for the others.

While waiting for our orders we chatted with Bridget, a fellow King’s grad who had just submitted her PhD dissertation and was now taking a few well-deserved weeks of complete inactivity. The pizzas came; I’d gotten duck, and Gareth and I were splitting a pepper/pepperoni masterpiece. We walked to the river; the smell rising from the cracks in the cardboard boxes and pushing us faster than our normal pace. We settled in Bodleys court, which overlooks the river, and listened as punting guides made up information about Cambridge for the credulous tourists. The favorite piece I’d heard from a guide was how Trinity College’s Wren library was built from the top down, since it was constructed before Newton invented gravity….

In the middle of our lovely meal my phone rang, and a porter was asking to talk with Thornton Thompson. In retrospect, I should have said that Thornton wasn’t here at the moment but I’d be happy to relay any message you might have for him, but alas.

“Terribly sorry to bother you mate, but one of the punts has been stolen, and we’re told you’re the man to be notified about it”

Backtrack….

After my first experience punting and the subsequent development of my river addiction, I’d discovered that the cost of 4 quid per hour adds up; especially when you take frequent six-hour trips to Grantchester. I then joined the punt committee because committee members can take them out for free as often as they want. It sounded like a sweet gig, and so far I’d had only minor responsibilities. When the summer came, the head and other committee members left for holiday, and I remained as the de facto leader, the point man for all things punt-related.

Fast forward….

“Shit, are you serious?”
“Yeah, some divvy left it unattended in Mill Pond, and it was gone when they got out of the pub”
“The pub?”
“Uh-huh”
“Alright, thanks for letting me know.”
“No worries mate. Good luck”

We spent the next five hours looking for that damn punt. At the start, I wasn’t too worried; the accessible part of the river isn’t that long. When these things had happened in years past, it was usually some kids that took it for a couple hundred yards of joyride, and then the joy wore off and it is abandoned fairly close by. Gareth and Martin generously offered to help me look, and as we left the lonely third pizza in the caring arms of HY and Aurelie, I felt confident we’d be back before it lost its steaming warm goodness…

We cycled up the river path towards Grantchester, and cut through nettle fields that stung my ankles and tugged at the spokes of my bike. We had to lift ourselves over innumerable gates that were meant to prevent bikers from taking that path. We rode for two miles up to the quaint little village, past the point where any punt thief could have made it in the brief time since it had disappeared.

“They must’ve taken it the other way down to Jesus Green,” I said.
“Ok let’s go check it out,” Gareth mounted and swerved to avoid a cow pie.
“Thanks guys, but you don’t need to come with me if you don’t want to”
“No worries, this is the most excitement Cambridge has had for a couple hundred years”

We rode back to King’s, where the girls waited for news.

“Anything?”
“Nothing”
“Really?”
“Yeah, we’re going to check the other way”
“Ok, good luck”

The north side of the river cuts through the colleges and is inaccessible to bike, so we took another punt and went off in hot pursuit, analyzing the water for clues and interrogating the ducks that ventured too close,

“Where’s our punt!!!??”
“Quack”
“Tell me, goddammit!!”
“Quack”
“If I find out you’re withholding information…..”
“Quack”

Daylight waned. We’d reached the far end of the river, where the lock prevents boats from going further. One of the punt companies has several dozen boats moored up there, so we shone our phone lights to see if we could distinguish our missing king (the punt is called “Edward VIII”) from among the plebs.

There was nothing. I couldn’t figure it out. I didn’t think there was any way that somebody could have gotten it out of the river. These things are heavy, and a crime like this would require at least six people, a truck, and some big brass balls to steal a punt in broad daylight. It just didn’t seem likely that the spontaneous thief would have these things lying in wait.

It was dark then, but we checked all the little rivulets, dead ends, and enclosed ponds we could get in to. My last hope faded when we went down to Darwin college, the last place it could have possibly been, and found it empty.

I thanked my deputies, and went to the porter’s lodge to get some more information. The idiot who left Eddy 8 unattended was going to have some serious explaining to do….

“It was Carl.”
I couldn’t believe it, “Carl Hodson!?? The head porter??”
“Yeah mate, he took it out with some buddies from Oxford”

Unbelievable. Carl Hodson, the boss of the porters, in charge of so much stuff that King’s would probably fall over if he left, the guy who chastises students for leaving a gate unlocked or walking on the grass or partying too loudly, had really really really fucked up.

……

The days went by and we still couldn’t find it. That weekend I kayaked up to and past Grantchester, in the unlikely event that it had gone that far. Still nothing.

We had insurance on all the punts, but because Edward VIII had been left unlocked and unattended, I didn’t see how we were going to get the insurance company to cough up any money at all. Liz got the unpleasant task of getting Carl to fill out the details for the insurance forms, but I had no hope we’d ever see the 4000 pounds that it was worth.

…..

16 days later. By then, I’d long since lost any hope it would ever be found. It was either at the bottom of some river, in somebody’s garage, or the newest member of an Oxford punting company. My phone rang at noon while I was working from home.

“Hello?”
“Hiya this is the Porter’s lodge, could I please speak with Thornton Thompson”

I was so sorely tempted…. but alas, “This is he, what’s up?”
“Oh hiya Thornton. The punt’s been found.”

Backtrack….

16 days ago, pizza at the Cow, interrupted by a phone call, 5 hours looking for a stolen punt, no trace whatsoever, finding out it was Carl’s fault.

Fastforward…

“Shit, are you serious?”
“Yeah mate, it’s back at Mill Pond”
“Sorry, what?”
“It’s at Mill Pond.”
“The same place it was stolen?”
“Uh-huh”
“Okay, thanks”

No way, I thought. somebody is mistaken. the porters are playing a joke on me. no way. Liz and I got a pole and walked down Silver Street, past the Anchor, and into the field adjacent to Mill Pond. In the dirty, algae-covered, duck-crawling pond, a lone punt floated by the bank. The fore and aft wood paneling sparkled with the bright purple of King’s College. Emblazoned on the sides was its call name: “Edward VIII” I could barely believe my eyes. We walked over and knelt down to check him out. There was some minor cosmetic damage, a bit of water in bottom, and a few leaves stuck to the side, but overall Eddy 8 was unharmed. The cushions were even still there. A chain tied the prow to a tree stump on the bank, and on the other end, a pale blue string anchored the rear to a piece of bank wood.

Somebody had stolen a punt while Carl Hodson and his friends were drinking at the pub, and hid it in some secret river cove. Let me re-emphasize, we checked EVERYWHERE. After 16 days, the generous thief decided to return the king, unransomed and unharmed, to the exact same spot from which he’d been taken.

Liz asked me if I wanted to punt him back home. I told her yes absolutely I did. We crossed under King’s bridge and veered left. I parallel parked Eddy 8 between his cousin Henry VII and his lover Mrs. Simpson. As we got out and wrapped the chains tightly around the metal rings on the bank, I looked up to see a black and green duck bobbing in front of the prodigal punt, staring right into my eyes.

And I swear to God it winked at me.

(Photo ruthlessly stolen from Gareth Nellis. Gareth is starting his PhD at Yale, and you can read his Anglo-impressions of the American experience at http://garethacrossstates.blogspot.com/)

Reverse Culture Shock and Awe

Kids and planes don’t usually mix well. They squirm, shriek, fight, cry, go to the bathroom way too often, wake you up, and are perpetually wondering aloud when they can stop being uncomfortable in the air and start being uncomfortable in a car. But who can blame them? When I was eight years old, it was tough to sit through a 20-minute church sermon, let alone an eight-hour transatlantic flight. (Not that my sermon endurance has changed much. Unless it contains some mention of fire and/or brimstone. Then I’m riveted.) But despite the annoyances, it is incredible to watch a child look out the window on his or her first takeoff. Most times they can barely see out the window. They stretch their necks and tilt their chins up as the engines fire and that first burst of acceleration jolts us backwards. As we tilt upward and rise, they sometimes make a little noise of awe, or turn around to glance questioningly at their parents with wide eyes of nervous excitement. “Is this really possible?” their faces wonder. Gatwick airport disappears behind and below, and the sprawling crush of London morphs into the low green fields of southern England. It reminds me how marvelous this feat is that we take for granted. How many of our ancestors looked at the birds and dreamed of gliding through the clouds? For millennia we reached, climbed, and built towers to the heavens, but now we sit in sticky leather seats and barely glance from our bad magazines as we rise through the low fog.

I guess sleep deprivation makes me nostalgic. I’d taken the 4:45 AM train from Cambridge that morning after a long wine-filled dinner, packing, and 3 hours of sleep the night before. It was 8.5 hours from London to Charlotte, North Carolina. When my personal movie-station broke, I alternated between reading “The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao” (which is fantastic, btw) and trying unsuccessfully to nap. I’ve never been able to sleep on planes and am insanely jealous of those people that can pass out on command. The best I can do is half-conscious trance, which is invariably interrupted by some child kicking my seat back. (After that first awe-inspiring take-off, kids are once again nearly intolerable). We landed at about 1 PM east coast time, to the instant relief of my spine and eardrums.

The first shock was the temperature and humidity. It rarely if ever gets above 75 F in England. The oppressive North Carolina heat filled my lungs with what felt like thick taffy. Instant perspiration. I’d forgotten the feeling.

The second shock was the accent. I hadn’t heard a Southern accent since leaving in October, and when the man behind me exclaimed “Boy golly, it shore is mighty hau-ght today!”, I jumped. I ordered a greasy pepperoni pizza from a girl who didn’t speak or look at me during the whole process, and couldn’t stop staring at a woman who couldn’t have been less than 350 pounds. I don’t mean any of this to sound elitist. England has its fair share of socio-cultural problems: interpersonal reticence, inflexible class distinctions, chavs that jump in front of your moving bike and scream “What the fuck’r you lookin’ at???!!!!”. The weird thing was how I’d gotten used to all that in only 7 months, and found myself staring at an obese (but hardly extraordinary) person like she was an alien, devouring a chicken fried rice with massive claws (chop sticks). Then again, there were plenty things I was happy to see as well: random acts of verbal friendliness, laughter everywhere. I loved the basketball on the television screens and the smell of cheap airport barbecue. As husbands, wives, fathers, daughters, and friends reunited in front of me with unashamed emotion, I realized how incredibly open we are compared to the British. We bare ourselves to the world with much less regard for how we’re perceived, whether or not it’s socially acceptable. Sometimes it’s quite annoying (like the girl arguing loudly on her cell phone), but just as often its endearing. A young man in desert fatigues clutched his small daughter; slowly swaying with eyes closed for what for him must have been eternity. The toddler swiveled her head to watch as I passed. We open ourselves to the sunshine or the blistering gale of others’ perceptions, without a forecast or even a glance outside.

Four hour layover in Charlotte. Still no rest.

In the two and half hours from Charlotte to KC, I managed something that almost resembled sleep!!! We landed, and I got my own emotional reunion from mama. One LONG hug and many big smiles later we were off. We had so many things to talk about, and I tried my best to be conversant after nearly 20 hours of travelling. Jet lag isn’t supposed to be that bad going west, but the sun still felt too close to the horizon. As it set during dinner, I felt like pupils were refusing to dilate, expecting the soft English midday light instead of Midwest dusk.

I wanted so badly to fall into bed, but I drove to Lawrence with Jay-Z’s Black Album blasting my ears and stoking my adrenaline to keep me awake.

I read somewhere that every hour of sleep less than 5 that a person gets is equivalent to the effect of one drink. No wonder I felt wasted after a only couple of schooners at Louise’s. Through the haze of weariness and alcohol, I saw my friends wander in to the bar one by one. Scott nearly crushed my ribs, and Schnack showed me how his nose (which I had broken the night before leaving for London) had healed properly. We forwent handshakes for hugs, and even my shattering weariness couldn’t keep my smile from growing bigger with each and every embrace. It felt so good to be home.

I don’t know what I had expected. I’ve learned so much about myself this year that I guess I was worried things might feel different. But it was so easy to fall back into the old laughter, the countless inside jokes (Bears??!!). It was like I’d stepped outside my life for a few minutes, only to return to a scene that had been frozen in time, resuming only as you set foot on the solid floor of memory. It was like I’d never left.

I loved it.

I spent that night like I had so many others in my last months in Lawrence: sprawled on a couch under a friend’s roof. Once again I was a vagabond, living out of my suitcase without a home or a job or a responsibility in the whole world. On the two other couches my friends lay down and cracked jokes while Connor noted that the world was spinning “even though my eyes are closed!!!” I drifted to unconsciousness as the crickets croaked love songs and moths circled perilously close to the lantern hung above the front porch, overlooking the darkened silence of Maine Street. Cool air drifted through a cracked window, tickled my neck, and I said a prayer to the God I don’t believe in for the incredible breadth and depth of friendship that I’m blessed with, for sparing me a life of closed doors and unkind faces and loneliness.

Out.

…………

The wedding couldn’t have gone any better. As an usher, my job was half male escort and half friendly bouncer. A middle-aged woman held onto my arm a bit too tightly and a little too long as I ushered her to her seat, and I couldn’t decide whether to shudder or to smile at the cougar who was past her post-prime. At the previous days’ rehearsal, the priest had described himself as Mexican with an English accent, which made for an interesting and partially comprehensible service. But of course it didn’t matter. The rings were exchanged, the vows said, and Peter gave a Caroline a little dip on the altar as they kissed for the first time as husband and wife. In mezzanine, I was caught in the moment, but managed to see the wedding coordinator frantically gesturing for me to get out of the way so the photographer could get a clear picture of the couple exiting the sanctuary. I lurched backwards and hit my hip on the table holding the registry, and cursed too loudly. Some old lady near the back looked mortified and I crossed my fingers she wouldn’t have a coronary right then and there.

I still hadn’t gotten used to the heat, and the black tuxedo had me sweating bullets as we headed out for pictures. I did my best Calvin Klein impression (which wasn’t great) and picked sticky burrs off my pants as we waded through a field of tall, bristle-y stems to do some nature shots. Tiger, grrrrr

The reception was at Longview mansion, about 15 minutes southeast of the KC suburbs. Its large grounds had huge gardens, fountains, and a croquet lawn!!!! A fierce battle followed. Tensions ran high. Words were exchanged. Victory was achieved, but not without significant bloodshed and irreparable diplomatic damage. Such is the nature of croquet.

Knowing my propensity (and vocal capacity) for toasts and speeches, Caroline asked me to announce the wedding party as they came down the stairs to the foyer. I had the list of who was coming down in what order with the bride and groom last but I nearly fucked it up anyway, only managing to hide my temporary amnesia with a dramatic pause and unnecessary flourish.

We ate. We drank. We drank some more.

At one point I very clearly remember asking one of the bartenders, “Do you think we’ll have enough drinks to last the night?” I was just making small talk. She had been arranging wine glasses, but her hands froze and she looked me straight in the eye with the expression of an outraged artisan. “We don’t EVER run out of drinks.” –and pointedly- “Sir.” Run awayyyyy….

We drank. We danced. We drank some more.

I saw Darren on the dance floor; poppin’ and lockin’ like a mad man. Good to see you, my friend. It makes me so happy that you’re finally back.

We danced the sun below the horizon, and we danced the stars out from behind their cover of daylight. The five-piece band had smiles on their faces and sweat on their brows as we moved through the hot summer night. I remember grabbing the microphone, meaning to start some impromptu karaoke, but was pulled back onto the floor before I could belt out the first lines of a Billy Joel song. At one point all of the guys were singing “You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman” while the actual women vacated the floor let us have a bro moment.

With the opening chords of “Sweet Caroline”, we made a circle around the bride as she giggled and glowed in her white dress, basking in friendship and love. When we yelled “Da, da, da!!!” at the top of our lungs, my memory flashed back to the countless other times we’d done this. I remembered how we would come in to the 8th St. Tap Room and take over the anemic basement dance floor, jigging and jiving to funk and soul. We brought our own energy.

Somehow everyone made the caravan back to the hotel, where I witnessed Chris Curtin (father of the bride) get on one knee and chug a Smirnoff Ice (Why, you ask?? – www.brosicingbros.com)

….

I woke up with a splitting headache and my cheeks sore from laughter. There was a table set up in our hotel room with beer pong cups, but I don’t remember playing. There was also a crowbar on the floor by the door. I’m still not sure I want to know what that was for. Miraculously, none of my clothes were missing.

My flight was in about 3.5 hours. I went around to the various hotel rooms and woke up my cadre to say goodbye. Some were in better (and more presentable) conditions than others.

I packed in record time and gargled some breath freshener to forget the taste of red wine.

For the second time I was in a car on Interstate highway 435, heading to a plane to take me across the world, but this time I was going home. That’s where the tricky part comes in. I’m leaving Cambridge in five months, and probably won’t be back here to permanently reside (not for lack of love, though). It’s funny you know, I came to England because I felt the unknown beckoning me across 8,000 miles of ocean. In my five years of pseudo-adulthood, I’ve been lucky enough to travel more than many people fit into a lifetime. But that itch remains, tugging on my brainstem, painting me pictures of distant and enigmatic people, landscapes, and driving directions. I thought that this year would satiate my wanderlust, or at least give me enough info to make an informed decision on what kind of life I want to lead. But it’s done nothing of the sort, just made me want even more.

….

I think I’m cursed.
More on this later.

……

Do not ever, EVER, under any circumstances take a transatlantic flight while hung-over. Worst. Feeling. Ever.

…..

I love you all. You know who you are. I’ll be back for at least a little while in October. See you then.

Punting

Punting is a long-cherished tradition in Cambridge. While most other students already had the experience of lounging in the small wooden boats on the river Cam, my delayed arrival and the onset of winter meant that spring was my first time to get on the water.

A punt is a small wooden boat, maybe 20 feet long and 4 feet wide. It is roughly rectangular, but tapers off to blunt points at the front and back. If you think about a Venetian gondola, you’ll have a fairly accurate picture, except that no one wears strange overalls, and singing (especially in Italian) is strictly forbidden. The punt can hold a captain/pilot/chauffeur who stands aft (“rear” for all you nautically-challenged folk) to propel and direct the boat, and four passengers that sit on the floor, two in a row, facing each other with a small space between their outstretched legs. I think the magic of punting comes from this arrangement. Unlike a canoe in which everyone is oriented in some way, a punt seems directionless. It puts the emphasis on just being on the water rather than trying to get somewhere specific.

The captain drives the punt with a long wooden pole, about 15 feet long, which is dipped into the water and pushes off the river bed. The experienced punters have a graceful stroke: they let the pole slip vertically through their hands into the water beside the punt, and lean forward, allowing their body weight to provide the force on the pole, which stretches out behind the moving boat, anchored to the soft mud. He stands upright, and with two smooth motions the punter tugs the shaft from the water and into the air, reaches for the middle while rotating it to a straight vertical position, and allows it to fall once more. The cycle takes about 6 seconds, and the slowness of the maneuver perfectly complements the boat’s lethargy. No need to hurry.

I had made plans to spend one glorious Saturday afternoon with some friends, punting for the first time. We had agreed to meet at King’s College by 11:30 and rent several boats for 3-4 hours. I didn’t manage to make it out of my house until about noon (which I blamed on a faulty alarm clock ☺ ) when my phone rang.

“Thornton…. We forgot the wine.”

Deafening silence on the line. I could feel the entire team’s consternation. The prospect of a river journey without booze is like a worn-down pencil: no point. (AH HAHAH!)

I could hear the question before it was spoken: “are you anywhere near a store that sells ethanol?” As a matter of fact I was. My tardiness turned into a blessing, and I arrived triumphant; three bottles of Sainsbury’s finest chardonnay, pinot grigio, and cabernet in my hands. The center gap between the four passengers is ideal for a picnic space, which makes any punting trip incomplete without food and drink. That day we had chips, guacamole, bruschetta, and ice cream from the riverside vendor.

There are soft pads in the bottom, and a wooden seatback to lean against. As I reclined, I reached over the side and let the river run through my fingers. Algae clung to my hands. The bottom of the punt lies well below water level, so you feel like you’re floating on the surface.

The green area adjacent to where we entered the river is called the Backs. The land is owned by several of the colleges, including King’s, Clare, Trinity, and St. John’s. We don’t have regular access to the grounds of the other three besides King’s, so snaking through on the water gave me my first daylight look at some of these beautiful areas. We passed under John’s “Bridge of Sighs”, modeled after its more famous cousin in Venice. There were marks on the stone arches above the water that showed how high the river had gotten in floods of years past. One line about 3 feet above water, was marked “1834”, another which would nearly have made the bridge nearly submerged was marked 1922.

The day was absolutely gorgeous. 75 degrees, not a cloud in the sky, and the sweet smell of plants emerging from hibernation, sending the aromas of spring drifting into the air. It seemed like all the city was out there with us, on the banks, the bridges, or the boats, soaking up the pre-summer light. We watched the people on the bridge disappear behind stone as we crossed underneath them, and they watched us re-emerge on the other side. Some of the stone arches can be quite low, especially if you don’t enter straight on through the center. There was more than one occasion where our driver (me included) had to duck, holding the pole horizontal to the water, and let us glide slowly under the shaded bridge dampness. It was in these moments that the dark art of punting (using your hands to push off of objects) is practiced with reluctance and shame. Even though redirecting the boat under the bridge was necessary to avoid some painful headaches, I felt like I’d fallen into a pit of moral decrepitude as I guided us through the narrow quarters with minimal headroom. I could almost hear the hisses and boos of my judgmental audience. Oh the humiliation!!

We spent nearly four hours like that. Eating, drinking, talking, and laughing as we tried to figure out the best way to switch pilots without tipping the boat or falling in the river. These swaps ended up being strange Twister-like maneuvers with must have looked quite comical to the causal bystander. Twice (but none on my watch) the pole got stuck in the river and we were left adrift, calling in mock distress to a nearby boat until our propulsion stick could be returned to us.

There was something so peaceful about it. As we climbed out and sat on the shore, I admired how the Chapel looked from this side of college, lording over the back lawn, with it’s twin spires pointed skyward and the stained glass glinting in the afternoon light. The water lapped softly against the bank, and the boats, lined up in a row against the western edge, rose and fell with each slight wave, tugging gently on the chains binding them to shore.

….

The weather has been a bit dreary the last few weekends, but at the next possible opportunity I want to punt to Grantchester, a small idyllic village about two miles south of town. It’s not exactly Huck Finn on the Mississippi, but for the sake of pure contentment, things don’t get much better than spending your day on the Cam.

Rain

It doesn’t rain here so much as speckle. Ten thousand fine grains of sand landing on my head, melting in my hair. Twenty-eight ballpoint pens tapping my face, moving with complex rhythm on my cheek, above my eye, now on my upper lip. I open my mouth and they dance on my tongue. Speckle.

Daylight barely seeps through the low cloud layer; the diluted sun complements rather than counteracts the drizzle. The rain softens the ground, and the shade blunts the rest of the Earth. The buildings are more pliable and they bend in the soft but persistent wind that pushes the speckle into the back of my neck. Three hundred little fingers prod me lightly; a friendly reminder, a gentle caress. Whispering in my ear shapeless words with long, drowsy sounds of lethargy.

“Rest.” It tells me.
“Sleep.” It implores

Trees bow their assent. They dip slowly, so slowly, bending with water weight and not un-contented weariness.

It is the quietest rain I have ever experienced. On my left a Honda drives by, the tires kick up streams of water, and I hear nothing. Everything is muffled; sound is pushed downward by the thick of thin speckles. It reaches the ground and moves laterally, funnels into the sewers where the rats are treated to a symphony of transplanted noise from the world above.

I walk and I don’t bother to pull my jacket tighter. I am not sad, not happy, not ambivalent. I fade into and become the grey all around me. My clothing and skin become translucent. The scent from my deodorant sloughs off and joins the sewer creatures. I move with the wind and the water moves through me, cleansing the small plaque from my arteries and irrigating my dry lymph nodes. Heart gets a bath, liver a quick shower.

From behind, I hear the faint notes of a slow, solitary guitar.

I turn the corner and before me is green, green unlike any green I could possibly be seeing in this weather. Green that is to color as the sun is to a 40-watt light bulb, as blood is to ketchup, as a concert hall is to AM radio.

The impossible green is from a mesh of vines growing on the ground; they sprout thin leaves and wind around each other and over each other and under each other into a thick net that obscures what must be grey ground underneath but I can’t see it. The sound of the rain on the leaves is LOUD, not like a train but loud like a stare from across the room, loud with depth, loud like the unspoken understanding of an inside joke. Even though the green is only about 10 x 5 feet in size, it is larger than everything and I fall into it.

and I remember a river in Scotland.

….

I remember how that rain sounded, landing on the thick foliage above and around us (slap!), and then dripping onto the mud and roots more softly (plop..). Slap and then plop, goes the falling, migrating raindrop. The infinite noise of the forest made any effort at spatial orientation seem futile. How could left and right, up or down, forward or backwards, how could they mean anything when nothing would ever change, whichever way you go. Turn this way or that way and yep, it’s the sound of the forest again.

When you close your eyes, it comes closer, hard glistening bark one centimeter away so you can see the ant circumnavigating the small growth of an aborted branch. You can smell Scotch oak that might one day become a whiskey barrel. Hands out: caterpillars swing from the nearby vine to tickle your palms.

The cacophony of the downpour wraps around your torso like a harness. The earthworms are crawling skyward through the dirt, and they push upwards on the soles of your shoes. You breath in the thick moisture; it feels like aerosolized Red Bull, and you fly just below where the leaves start to grow, and the caterpillars hang onto your thumbs for dear life, shrieking their little pseudo-lungs out with terrified excitement.

I open my eyes and realize that my cheeks are sore: I’m grinning. The thought of a gleefully screaming caterpillar is really hilarious.

That scent. Oh god how can I describe it. (Do you remember, J?) The river is what makes it special; the light foam makes me taste and smell at the same time. Homeopathic amounts of minerals bind both to my upper palate and in my nose. Iron and copper mix with sap and soil: syrupy swords and dirty pennies latch onto my tongue and light up my taste receptors.

Wilderness!! Even with twenty other college kids around me, it’s hard not to feel like Lewis sans Clarke, pushing open the mystery of unblemished natural beauty and feeling it close again behind you, so that even when you come full circle to the same spot, the newness is there all over again. The trees nod their greetings, the caterpillars wave all their feet.

Magic!! Even with all the insipid realities of modern life less than five miles behind me, right now it’s effortless to believe that the forest teems with living mythology. The light slightly fades as I enter a particularly lush thicket, and the glowing fireflies could easily be luminescent fairies. A flash of movement is some other mythical creature keeping watch over the kingdom. I start to see faces on the big oaks gain eyes and crow’s feet around them. 100% of me laughs at my own stupid fantasy, and 100% of me believes it all.

They want us to walk on the path, but it’s hard not to wander off just to feel the ground beneath your feet give way slightly.

The river bends to run parallel to the path we walk, and the rain eases.

I remember how it felt to walk along the bank, to hear the babble of water over stone. My bare legs still feel the light splash of near-imperceptible vapor. My feet remember soft soil, brittle sticks fallen from the trees, and small jagged pieces of pseudo-sediment.

I remember hearing the river speak to me. It touches some part of my ancient hindbrain that still craves the sound of moving water, Five miles away the city bustles and creaks and grows with each new barrel of concrete and every fresh bar of steel. But here, it can’t be farther away. Eyes close, and I listen with ears that are forgetting the sounds of trains, planes, or cars. In my mind, it’s 10 million years before Bronze Age, let alone the asphalt era.

The river whispers to me words that my 18 year-old mind cannot comprehend, but my timeless brain, passed down from fish to lizard to ape to man to me, understands completely. Eyes open I’m awake and agape and I’m looking from bank to brook to breaking water. I’m feeling this old part of me relax and drink from these sounds and smells and be satisfied like never before, but my frontal cortex doesn’t understand, and I listen in as it pesters my medulla:

Cortex: “Why, medulla?? What is this? It’s just a river. Twenty six thousand three hundred and seventy-eight of them are spread across five million square miles of landmass. You’ve seen about twenty-eight of those. You were born two miles from another one.”

Medulla: I was born here. Shut the fuck up, listen, and leave me alone.”

Cortex looks at me quizzically. I turn him off and listen through medulla:

…………..

Breathe the way you should breathe, deep in through your mouth and out through your nose. Feel the entire world enter through your lips and down your throat; chew and taste it. Hear each of the fifteen million noises all around you individually, and then hear them coalesce into one note that transcends pitch or timbre

A great need seizes me; my shoes come off and my pant legs roll up. The undulations of water tickle my toes and surround my feet like a homecoming parade.

The rocks are sharp, I will cut my feet. I don’t care. Blood mixes with water, the red is swallowed by, and becomes, the river. Deftly I move from the low embankment to the narrow rocks on the edge of the water. Putting my feet in the smooth spots between the jagged edges, it’s like the stones were built for me. I see my path and destination (a large , gray, un-speckled stone in the middle of the river) and I draw nearer to where the ancient me was born.

Halfway there and I stop to listen to the sound that a small rapid makes. A large pebble points upward. The river rises over it and falls behind it, creating a hole where miniature eddies swirl around in concentric circles. The first hints of white water form and die continuously, over and over again. Squatting on my heels, I bring my hands down and together, up and apart above my mouth to drink my blood. Press on to the center.

Almost there and my heart races. The last gap requires a tiny leap of faith to cross and I take it.

I am two inches above sea level, prostrate, with my nose dipping in and out of my old home. Murmuring low tones of merriment, the river speaks to me about a different way of looking at things. The river is both perpetual and yet always changing, and so am I; new skin every two weeks, a new lung per month. Five minutes do I lay there, but of course it is longer than that. I begin to rise slowly, amphibiously, speckled with moisture, recreating two hundred and sixty million years of evolution in fifteen seconds. Belly. Hands and knees. Feet and hands. Heels and fingertips. And then ten short digits to the ground. I rise sixty-eight inches to survey the geography of an ephemeral constant. Every dead tree pushing against the current is visible, All the competing ebbs and flows of the living river reveal themselves to me. I notice how slightly the river tilts as it doglegs left, and feel the friction of the bank, the bed, the stones. Arms at my sides, shoulders rolled back, I experience the river surrounding and encompassing all my senses. The babble becomes my voice, the current is the track of my lymph fluid. It starts to rain.

It doesn’t rain here so much as the air coagulates. Two hundred and fifty drops of oil landing in my hair, anointing my forehead. Fourteen strings of honey slowly crawl down my cheeks, over the bridge of my nose. I open my mouth and they pool on my tongue. I swallow sweet nectar. I look up and the silver mists part to disclose the mountains in the distance. I look down into the thick sweet water, and see the outline of my upper torso staring up at me. On the tips of my toes, and even now as I write this I’m tilting forward, so slowly, watching my body in the water loom larger and larger. I’m watching the river begin to enfold me, encapsulate me, enliven me with the murmur and trickle that showed me how I was, am, and will always be in that forest, standing on that stone, feeling the rain build me up and wash me down with the river.

Berlin in 2000 words

On the train from the airport to the city centre, two guys sat down in the seats next to me and opened two bottles of Beck’s beer. The split-second SSSSSSSssssss….. of the releasing carbonation interrupted my contemplation of suburban Berlin’s landscape. A clink as glass meets glass, then they looked at each other and said, “Prost,” with that unique German smile: slight tightening of the outer lips, an almost imperceptible elevation of corners of the eyes, no teeth showing. In some countries, it might be interpreted as a look of ambivalence or slight satisfaction, but the zest with which the Germans guzzled the first half of the pilsners, and their contented, hearty exhalations informed me that this mysterious “Prost” was a joyous, meaningful well-wishing. After two contented sighs, they resumed their conversation with rapidity and excitement. At the next stop, four more youths boarded the carriage. The two men had shaved heads, tattoos running down their arms and up their necks, and more piercings than I could count. Both girls were pink-haired, similarly pierced, and scantily clad in miniskirts, fishnet leggings, and leather tops. All four were completely tanked and stumbling around the end of the car as the train bounced through a sharp turn. Suddenly, one of the girls grabbed two of the ceiling’s support handles, lifted herself up and wrapped her legs around the larger guy’s waist. They proceeded to dry-hump for about thirty seconds while the Beck’s drinkers rolled their eyes, a Chinese woman in the corner stared pointedly at the floor, and I tried not to look too creeped out.

A feeling of absurd un-reality hit me suddenly: I knew absolutely no German apart from the mysterious “prost” and the first three numbers I’d learned from Cool Runnings. I had lost the directions to my hostel, my map of public transportation was 5 years out of date, my phone was on the verge of dying, and I was sitting serenely on a train while four punks showed me why Berlin was called the hedonistic capital of the world. I shook my head in amazement, felt my anxiety melt away, and began to chuckle to myself. Absurd. My laughter grew and I was shaking in my seat. I laughed with excitement at the possibility of the unknown; with the release of being shaken out of comfort. I laughed with loving madness because I was entering a crazy city. I looked up from my revelry, flashed my American smile to everyone in the train, picked up my bags, and walked out into Alexanderplatz station. Wilkkomen in Berlin!

...

The first thing I noticed about Berlin was how unguarded the people are. In cities like New York, London, or Paris, the natives stride along at a brisk pace, heads down or looking straight ahead, and would never deign to meet the gaze of a passerby. Not so in Berlin. Everywhere I went, people looked at me. At first, I though I must have been conspicuously dressed, but on after a while it was clear that most people got the same open scrutiny. Instead of being closed off, Berliners were always looking around and responding to the people around them. If I smiled, they smiled back to me. I had no trouble asking directions from someone on the street, or discussing differences between German and American beer with a bartender. At no point did I feel unwelcome, though of course I didn’t really blend in: my white sneakers immediately betrayed me as a foreigner.

I know I stuck out like a sore thumb because the Gypsies always came straight up to me in a crowd. On Unter den Linden, the city’s main thoroughfare, thousands of people walked the streets, but I was always singled out for Gypsy begging. One kid spotted me from fifty yards away and made a beeline right to the spot where I would emerge from a crowd. I always wondered how they timed it that well.

“’’Scuse me?” he said with a decent British accent. “Do you speak English?”
“No” I replied.

“Deutsch?”
“Nein” (this invariably generated some laughter. I must have a terrible German accent)

“Francais?”
“No”

“Ruski?” Surprised, I nodded assent just to see if he could speak Russian, though of course I knew not a word. He started jabbering away in a language that sounded vaguely Slavic. Impressed, I gave him a Euro for his language skills.

My generosity was a terrible idea. The little gremlins must have signals to point out the sucker tourists because after the money left my hand, thousands of the munchkins converged on me. They poured out of the subways, the alleys, the buildings, even the high-rise apartments. I was surrounded! I had to use a modified version of my favorite game, which I now dub, “Avoid the Persistent Gypsy Child” in order to scamper away from certain destruction. I had visions of being torn apart by colorfully-clad olive-skinned child-thieves, all the while surrounded by a sea of “Scuse me!!” harassments. Nightmarish, I tell you.

…

The years after the wall fell were a tumultuous time for the city. Reunification was supposed to be a triumphant, joyous occasion. Families brought together again. East Germany lifted out of oppression. The triumph of freedom over tyranny. Etc. Etc. In some ways it was true, but there remained the very real problem of integrating two societies that had radically diverged since 1963, when guard towers, concrete, and Kalashnikov machine guns split the city in two. Economic disparity, political disagreements, and even infrastructural differences made for a less than picturesque reality of the reunion. Freed from emigration restrictions, many residents of the former DDR fled to higher ground in the prosperous West, abandoning entire neighborhoods. Poor Turkish immigrants filled the empty space. As happens all to often in these situations, civil services, police presence, and other aspects of government involvement waned, and some of these zones fell into disrepair and crime.

Interesting things began to happen in subsequent years. Attracted by the low rents and spacious flats, poor artists began to move into the abandoned warehouses, factories, and housing projects. They set their studios in the tall East German drudgery, with a view of factory stacks, barbed wire, and Soviet-style monochromatism. One would hardly think that creativity would thrive in such an atmosphere, but thrive it did. Berlin became a haven for artists driven out of New York and Paris by gentrification, and the media began to change to reflect this new environment. With its high, bare brick walls, Berlin street art flourished.

When I think of graffiti, the first thing that comes to mind is a gang sign; crude, angry messages. By definition, the paint on Berlin’s buildings might be classified as graffiti. If so, a new definition is needed.

In 1992, Kreutzberg was one of the poorest districts in the city. By the Kotbusser Tor metro station stood a seven story, 400-room housing project: boarded windows and broken glass, surrounded by a dying landscape. The ground floor of the project is exposed to the elements, with doors separating the wind from dark, narrow stairwells. Large stand-alone concrete walls support the building. It was a hot-spot for drug trafficking and the violence that came with it. No police kept watch at night; garbage crews were infrequent and often left heaps of trash to rot in the summer sun or to freeze in cold of winter. Though plenty of people lived in the project, it was completely and utterly abandoned by the rest of German society.

A group of painters had moved into an empty department store down the street, and they decided to try an experiment. Young and idealistic, they believed they could rejuvenate the neighborhood with their craft. So they began painting murals directly on the walls of the housing project. The idea was, maybe beauty was enough to change people. If instead of looking everyday at decrepitude, being reminded of their own worthlessness, if the people saw vibrancy and life through the art, maybe it could make a difference, calm the anger. In effect, the artists were trying to say, “look, here is something you can be proud of. This wall, once bare and broken, is now alive.. Take it.”

Kreuzberg’s transformation didn’t happen overnight, and it surely had more causes than a bunch of hippie painters trying to change the world with peace, love, and art. However, as I climbed the stairs out of the Kotbusser Tor metro station, heard the story from our guide, I was amazed at how unblemished the murals were. Bright colors shone from the drab beige undertone like sunlight through a prism, spilling onto the street and infecting the adjoining square with a vitality that made it hard not to smile. I wonder what it was like to watch this be born, a diamond slowly growing in this harsh, pained rough. Though the murals are exposed and unguarded, defacement is almost nonexistent. Did the art make it easier for the people of Kreutzberg to not settle for the short, brutal life? Who knows, but it probably didn’t’ hurt.

…

Being American, I thought I knew all about fireworks, but New Year’s Eve shamed my pitiful knowledge of recreational explosives. There were plenty of sparklers, shimmering fountains, and other benign, colorful things, but the diversity, density, and danger of Berlin’s fireworks overwhelmed the eyes and the eardrums.

I stood on a bridge over railroad tracks, a bottle of cheap champagne in my hand, warm from the mass of people despite the freezing temperatures. My newfound friends laughed and smoked around me, and together we staggered to and fro the length of the bridge, wishing happy New Year’s to all.

Cars crawled past the revelry, slowed by thick snow and thicker crowds. The rails of the bridge were crowded with bottle rockets. When room on the ledges ran out, people held the rockets aloft, or let them scream down to the iron abyss or up to the clouded sky. Large explosions all around us. Worry and caution were trampled by jubilation and inebriation. Without an official clock, ten different midnight countdowns began asynchronously. New Year’s day came gradually that night, with small groups of people entering 2010 one after another. The cheers built over the course of about 30 seconds, and the embraces spread down the line of people on the bridge. I was caught up in a riveting (and incomprehensible) half-sign-language-conversation with three Dutch girls, before being dragged off by my hosts. Another bottle was put in my hand.

Spotty memories the rest of the night: Snowball fights. Loud, pulsing, electronic music. Playful wrestling on a sidewalk. A brief New Year’s kiss. A smile. Goodnight, Berlin.

…

things to do/see/eat/experience in Berlin:

Jewish Museum
Alternative Berlin Tour (google it)
Walk down Unter den Linten
Go to a night club (Panorama, Watergate, or others).
Museum Island
Beer gardens in the summer
Gluwein
KEBABS IN KREUTZGERG!!!!
Smile at people
Street art
Currywurst (sausage with curry on it)
Art that isn’t in museums
EAST SIDE GALLERY
the bar/restaurant called “White Trash Fast Food”

Overrated things:

Checkpoint Charlie
ALL the stores on Unter den Linten (unless you’re in the market for a Lamborghini)
Pergamon Museum
KaDeWe shopping center
Food in the metro stations