Doing SFA in a no-horse town

To describe Rotschuo as a one-horse town would be a case of generous overstatement. There are no horses to speak of in this tiny village in central Switzerland. So there's really not a great deal to report.

Today I walked for an hour to the town and stopped on this bench to write some postcards.


Then I walked a little further, puchased seven stamps and sent my postcards on their merry way back to Australia.

I came back to the chalet, swam in the lake, then destroyed a few hours napping in this hammock.


Really, for the past few days I have been doing sweeeeeeeeet Fanny Adams. This is good and necessary, as a) I've been really tired after the sensory overload of Berlin, and b) I travel to Paris tomorrow to meet a gaggle of six girlfriends.

The last time I got to go on holiday with a couple of these girlfriends (two of the finest women to ever draw breath) we were in second year uni, and spent a glorious week on Rottnest Island behaving like megabogues by hijacking the jukebox at the Quokka Arms every night and screaming to Chisel. (You know who you are.) Eight or so years older, but perhaps not entirely wiser, I can't wait to wander around Paris with these stellar broads. Coordinating this transcontinental get-together has warranted a group email stretching back since February and consisting of 187 messages at last count.

So it's guten tag/bonjour/arriverci, baby goats. Viva la belle France!


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What I now know about the German economy, and also: BABY GOATS!

I will preface this by saying I know a first-world problem when I see one. First-world problems (hereafter known as 1WPs) are those kinds of situations which are deeply annoying to the world's wealthier citizens, but would be considered an extreme luxury to those living in second- or third-world nations. For example, your iPhone not picking up wi-fi is decidedly a 1WP. In the words of my father, "shut your neck."

Yesterday was full of 1WPs, as I travelled from Berlin to the tiny Swiss village of Rotschuo, on Lake Lucerne. This involved a train, a bus, a plane, another train, and then another, and then another bus, and one more. And I really do hate public transport connections.

An aside: even though I had no less than six (!) connections to make, some with only three minutes' lead time, I made each and every one of them without a hitch. This is testament to the efficiency of the German and Swiss transport systems. Cannot imagine trying to undertake a similar journey in Victoria without it turning into a giant dizazzo.

However, despite it being a long day with a lot of suitcase-hauling, it was not entirely unpleasant. At Warschauerstrasse, a man with a suitcase saw me looking at a subway map and offered to show me the way to Tegel Airport, as he was en route back to Paris. This turned into a most pleasant train-and-bus-trip, followed by espresso and croissants at the airport before boarding our respective flights.

Turned out that this bloke, Michael, is Germany's OECD representative, based in Paris. His job is to share Germany's best practice in macroeconomics with other OECD nations and also to nick good ideas from other countries. This was a most fascinating conversation, because Michael was able to explain to me how Germany had managed to weather the GEC so successfully. I had asked a few Berliners this question, but no-one was able to explain this satisfactorily. ("Hmm... Car manufacturing? Dunno.") Anyway, Michael told me that Germany was the world leader in developing green technology. There are 350,000 workplaces in Germany whose primary business consists of developing and exporting green energy solutions. He also told me that Germany has been successfully trading carbon for some time now, and could Australia pull its socks up on this matter, please. So the first two legs of my journey were passed with informative, engaging and lively conversation with a most interesting person. And a croissant.

The plane trip was uneventful. When I got to Zurich airport, I noticed that the airport smelled strongly of soap, in stark contrast to Berlin, which smells of urine, and Stockholm, which smells of clean sheets dried in sunshine and cut grass.

Halfway through the fourth leg of my journey, observing the outer suburbs of Zurich, I thought: "Seriously, Chops. WTF are you doing here? This looks like Lilydale, only the chateaux less faux. You could have seen this on a Zone 2 ticket." But as I got closer to Rotschuo, the landscape became pretty amazing pretty quickly.





When I arrived at the hostel, I heard some loud bell-ringing and again thought "WTF? Perhaps it is dinnertime or something." As it turned out, the bells were around the necks of the hostel's resident goats, who had given birth to baby kids just one week ago. The kids are the size of house cats (and decidedly less evil) and they can only walk backwards. They kill me.





My room, with its red shutters, panelled walls and checky blankets, is just picture-perfect. It is tiny, but that is ok.











Long-time readers of this here webular log may recall that I was entertaining fantasies of lying by the lake in a bathing suit and a floppy hat, reading one book per day. Instead, I am writing this curled up in the chalet, under a checky blanket, as a storm is rolling over the lake. Reading conditions: perfect. Afternoon napping conditions: ideal.





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Hamburger-Bahnhof: sadly, no burgers, but a talking penis. Yep.

Upon awakening on Thursday, my last full day in Berlin, I felt overwhelmed by the amount of things I wanted to do before leaving. I believe the key to success is knowing one's strengths, so with this in mind, I chose to focus on what I'm good at: going to art museums and shopping in gallery bookshops.

A girl I met in Stockholm recommended Hamburger-Bahnhof to me, Berlin's centre for contemporary art. It did not disappoint.


Hamburger-Bahnhof is a disused railway station, which now houses a modestly sized collection of contemporary art. Structurally, the space is pretty amazing. It's been used well to transform the station into its current usage as a gallery.


The Bahnhof has two major strengths: land art and video installations. I find the former interesting, but the latter generally bores me. However, because I am immature, I did watch this piece for quite a while. It's just a man's head, upside down, speaking to the camera. The only reason it captivated me, however, is because it looked like a talking penis. With teeth.


I quite liked a number of the pieces for reasons that weren't entirely puerile. Richard Long's work, Berlin Circles, in the main hall, was my first introduction to the land art movement, and I was quite taken with it. Land art is a form in which the artist creates work by interacting with the landscape. In Long's case, sometimes he walked in a straight line for, like, AGES, and the line that he created is the artwork. In this exhibition, his focus was on the circle as a natural form. The scale of these pieces was truly impressive.


There was another piece that I really liked, which was Roth's Gartenskulptur. The poorly photographed wall text, below, contextualises the work.


Without this description of the evolution of the piece, it kind of resembles some weird Survivor immunity challenge, only with less of Jeff Probst's forearms and more stuffed rabbits. But it was a really enjoyable piece.






I quite liked a Polaroid exhibition called Secret Universe from German artist Horst Ademeit. Again, please trust what the professionals say as opposed to my ham-fisted attempts to describe the work.





Ademeit photographed the same stuff every day over decades -- mainly the readings on scientific instruments. He took tiny notes in the white space around the Polaroids (but thoughtlessly wrote these in Deutsche, so I couldn't read them).


One thing I admired about this work was Ademeit's commitment to documentation, which predates digital photography. If I had any desire to record and publish something every day (say, the lovehearts in the crema of my coffee, or the toothpaste I spit into the sink), I could do so quite easily, with minimal time and expenditure. That doesn't mean anyone would give a shit, mind you -- but that's beside the point.

My point, and I assure you I actually have one, is that Ademeit felt strongly enough about documenting continuity and change that he undertook this enormous project over many years, when photography was a far more expensive and risky undertaking than it is now. So hats off to Horst.

There were quite a few other things I enjoyed about Hamburger-Bahnhof. I've always liked Warhol's serigraphy, and the collection includes a few impressive large-scale pieces I hadn't seen before.






And, just for kicks, a few other random shots from around the place...












And then it was time to go meet my friends at the Museum fur Fotografie, which houses the Helmut Newton Foundation. I quite liked the exhibition, but I cannot be bothered describing it, beyond saying it was room after room of topless models in heels, and framed condolences from Richard Gere and Jacques Chirac. Google that shit if you're interested.

So today I said auf weidersehen to Berlin and my beloved Michelberger Hotel. But I'll be back, baby. I ain't done with you yet.






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Berlin and its olfactory stenches

Some places in Berlin, like Viktoriapark, smell like poo. Actual, human poo, not blood and bone or dog turds. Other places, such as Warschauerstrasse, stink of wee. I have also identified other human smells which I will not go into on a blog that is read by my parents and co-workers (but feel free to use your imagination).

And yet despite the fact that Berlin really does reek, I am quite taken with the place. A modern city of such diversity is really hard to describe. The architecture, pre- and post-war (that's all the wars prior to the twentieth century, plus the two world wars and the Cold War) is impossible to categorise. Politically and demographically it is incredibly diverse. And despite Berlin itself being in €63 billion debt, and having 14% unemployment, it remains an economic powerhouse in European terms. And it's fun and hedonistic and sexy and relaxed.

So yesterday, in addition to doing some wandering around and shopping atMuji (OMG AMAZING!) I went on a dusk bike tour of Berlin, which took us through many historic sites and a pleasant ride through the Tiergarten to a Biergarten. I won't attempt to describe these shots, because a) I don't know shit about German history, and b) we saw so many things I am bound to mix these things up.
















I would like it known that while I think German bier flags are quite pretty in a biergarten in the Tiergarten, the same cannot be said if they are adorning the verandah of a sharehouse in Northcote where world music is welcome. It's all about context, you see.



I write this from a laundromat (or waschrcentr) in Warschauerstrasse. The reputed precision and efficiency of the Germans is extremely apparent. As I sit here, I have witnessed a man spend thirty minutes folding four identical pairs of white shorts and a bedsheet.







(Not this guy, though. This guy looks like he was partying at my hotel until 5am, playing ping pong to Salt'n'Pepa in the courtyard).

Today, I'm going to do more of what I do best: hang out in art galleries, looking at the work until such time as I feel like checking out the gallery cafe and/or bookshop. See ya heaps later!

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I cannot believe what I just did.

Today was one of those days that people have when they are travelling. They meet someone interesting who knows about something cool then they go do it and then for all eternity they bore their friends back home with stories about The Time They Did ___________ in _____________ with ______________.

So please forgive this indulgence.

I had the best-laid plans today, namely: to go on a bike tour of Berlin's famous WWII and Cold War sites. However, about five minutes after departure, it started pissing down and I decided I did not really want to spend the rest of my day in wet jeans. So I turned back and took a raincheck on the bike tour for tomorrow. Of course, the sun came out shortly after I decided to give up, but I spent a really nice afternoon wandering around Friedrichshain and had lunch at a gorgeous little cafe.

I asked for a salad plate as I have been feeling the effects of German stodge these past few days. I ended up with this:



Yeah, that's four different cheeses right there. Thanks, Germany.

After lunch, I met up with my friend The Professor and we went on an adventure to Tempelhof, the former airport, now a public space.

Quite simply, it was one of the most amazing places I have ever been.






We rode from the city for about half an hour before arriving at the park.








It's impossible to describe the size of this place (both the airport terminal and the runways). But I will say this: riding on a bicycle down the runway of a disused airport in Berlin is probably the coolest thing I could ever hope to do. I completely lost my shit over this.



There was all sorts of activity going on at the site -- skateboarding kite surfers, rollerblading, and some little makeshift kitchen gardens. It was heaven.






It was an experience I find hard to describe. On one hand, the incredible vastness of concrete and tarmac should have made the place feel incredibly bleak. All that space, and not one tree. On the other, the community atmosphere was palpable, and it was amazing to see Berliners using the public space so enthusiastically, despite the fact that it lacked pretty much every single aspect of a conventional park.

We rode back to the city to drop off our bikes, caught the U-bahn to our hotel, then went out for Indian food in Friedrichshain. The Professor was quite excited to be able to drink beer in the street on the way home without getting arrested, so that he did before we enjoyed a while longer in the hotel courtyard talking rubbish and hanging out.

So, apologies in advance to those unfortunate souls who will so generously ask me: "how was your trip?" I can tell you I am probably going to bang on about the day I got to ride to an old Nazi airport with a professor of landscape architecture, hear theories of public space, then cycle down a runway. Soz.

Learning Deutsche from Rammstein

Yesterday was my first full day in Berlin and I had zero plans. It also happened to be a public holiday so I took the opportunity to wander around and get my bearings.

Firstly, breakfast in my hotel RULES. Contrary to what this picture may suggest, they did not serve a bowl of spew. It is, in fact, bircher muesli amd a piece of pumpernickel with smoked salmon and horseradish. And it was lovely.



Berlin is a strange place. Firstly, the ciy itself is fucking enormous. I was sayig this to a friend of mine yesterday who is now living here, and he explained to me that when the wall was still erect (*immature giggle*) there was actaually two cities and so the city landscape is accordingly large.

One thing I noticed was that if you look at your map and think "Oh, I will just walk there instead of getting the U- or S-Bahn as it appears to be a short and pleasant stroll" you will surely be mistaken, and arrive at your destination with sore feet.


I had a great afternoon meeting up with some friends from my home town. We sat in Viktoriapark [sic] and it was fantastic, although in no way like the Victoria Park of Collingwood fame and definitely no Joffa sightings. We sat by this large but artificial waterfall, dipping our toes in and shootin' the breeze.





We then went out for some Italian food, and when my friend was negotiating with the waiter how many people we had in our party, I realised that I knew the German numbers from 1-4. And, while I wasn't sure I could say them, I could sing them, due to a teenage fondness for Rammstein. LINKS 2, 3, 4!

We ordered a couple of pizzas. One of these pizzas was from a small subsection of the menu called STG something-or-other which meant it was certified by some pizza bigwigs (whom my mate referred to as The Union of Pizza C***ts) due to the grade of flour and cheese etc. Whatevs, it was really really great pizza. The Union of Pizza C**ts (not to be confused with Samurai Pizza Cats) know what they're on about.

Today I am going to go on an historical bike tour, go to my mate's cafe to drink some Aeropress coffee (which my mate says is like using a penis enlarger to extract it), ride bikes down the runways around the old airport site at Templehof and find a power converter, as I have yet to work out how to straighen my hair via USB cable.

Love!



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Stockholm, I am going to miss the shit outta you.

So last night was the gala dinner for PLAIN 2011. The Van der Nootska Palace was a 17th-century decorative gem.

We started with some very civilised drinks in the garden before proceeding inside for dinner.





For your information, the reindeer mousse atop my chanterelle tart tasted rather a lot like beef jerky whipped with Philly cream cheese. Unfortunate, I thought, that there were no bagels lying around.

After dinner, coffee was served in the drawing room and there was an actual pianist (!) and actual songbooks (!!) and actual Swedes singing along to the piano (!!!). Heaven. But a little too demure for the Australians and before long someone had sorted out an iPod connection and we had an hilarious disco in the ballroom. It was horribly cliched, but it would be remiss of me not to mention that ABBA got a spin on more than one occasion.

A side note: why don't Australian men know how to dance properly? All the diplomats had mad skillz in twirling us around the ballroom. Chuh.

They also played a lot of fairly saccharine-sounding Swedish pop music. I asked a friend to translate and she said the chorus was "summertime, hey hey!" but in all honesty they could have been singing "We have the most attractive genes, suckaz!" and I would be none the wiser.

I turned into a pumpkin at midnight and, walking back to my hotel, noticed that even after 12, this is as dark as it gets in Stockholm midsumma. Bliss.


This morning I spent 90 minutes (ridiculous, unacceptably lengthy period of time) packing while having a disco to Graceland through my headphones. I went for one last walk through Sodermalm, this time in more residential streets, before stopping at my beloved Il Caffe Soder.









I am currently waiting to board my flight to Berlin, where I will be staying at the insanely stylish Michelberger Hotel. Apparently it is so hip that they felt it neessary to state in their marketing material that the people in the photographs are actual guests, not models. Good to know.

Hej da, Stockholm. I am going to miss the shit outta you.


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