Berlin

Franz said, “Beauty in the European sense has always had a premeditated quality to it. We’ve always had an aesthetic intention and long-range plan. That’s what enabled Western man to spend decades building a Gothic cathedral or a renaissance piazza. The beauty of New York rests on a completely different base. It’s unintentional. It arose independent of human design, like a stalagmitic cavern. Forms which are in themselves quite ugly turn up fortuitously, without design, in such incredible surroundings that they sparkle with a sudden wondrous poetry.”

Sabina said, “Unintentional beauty. Yes.  Another way of putting it might be ‘beauty by mistake.’ “

(The Unbearable Lightness of Being,  pg 101).

Wow! I felt completely unprepared for Berlin. For Paris, Strasbourg, Prague- yes. These cities all had the cathedrals I was expecting- the skyline, the old town, the oblivious foreigners and well-marked tourist centers (two of which we proudly utilized). Berlin, on the other hand, was a refreshing surprise.

We get to Berlin’s international bus station around nine at night, just in time for things to be mysterious and unfriendly. We ask the information man- Do you speak English? He replies, “I speak German better.” Ouch, ok. He nonetheless gives us precise directions to the metro, which we confuse at length as we walk in frustratingly larger circles, testing our calm for the first time in over a week.

Eventually we locate the metro and sigh from relief as we plop our selves and stuff onto a bench. The train pulls up and we board, immediately taken with the appearance of our car-mates. Leather, died hair, flannel, piercings, Doc Martens. Amusingly, not all worn by one disaffected teenager, but spread evenly among numerous adults dressed in otherwise reasonably conservative but undeniably cool attire. It’s like a hip coffee shop, only it’s a random sample of the Berlin public.

Day two we sleep into until pulled into the city by an urgent need for food. We end up in Hackescher Markt, which Wikipedia calls a ‘cultural and commercial centre.’ Some of the hippest people I’ve seen, right up to senior citizen-aged, walking shopping biking eating. Clean modern buildings with minor graffiti interspersed with older but unremarkable buildings reminds me of Chicago. We pass through Tacheles (a sort of anarchic art center) on our way toward Unter Der Linden, central tourist area with the Brandenburg Gate. Re-confirmed: Berlin is super cool. Berliners ride bicycles in droves, dress like alt-rock stars, and wear expressions of thoughtful indifference. Even the tourists are pretty low-key, avoiding the typical displays of foreignness one sees in many other cities.

Something we noticed early on in the trip was peoples’ tendency to

tacheles

recommend enthusiastically whatever they have done or seen in Europe, even without having experienced an alternative. An amusing, but logical reaction of Americans, especially, to traveling in Europe – everything is great. The only exception to this, from our pool of data, is Berlin. At least two friends (/of friends) reportedly didn’t like Berlin, and don’t recommend it. In the context of universally positive reviews by everyone for everywhere, this aberration requires analysis.

And that’s where Franz comes in. By his estimation, my expectations of Europe were identical with this image of a premeditated beauty from an aesthetic intention and long-range plan. Americans, especially, have a strong feeling for this because our country lacks it. There’s no St. Vitus Cathedral in Washington DC. When Americans go to Berlin and don’t like it, then, it’s because it flouts that preconception. Berlin, like America, is beautiful only by mistake. It lacks a Notre Dame in favor of places like Tacheles. Still excellent, just not what you expected. Only the currywurst gives the full experience you expected.

The Sting

    Day two of our queen search-and-destroy mission begins ominously with looming dark clouds. David reasons, “The weather channel says it will rain every day this week. But they are usually wrong, and we have to go out sometime, so let’s go out today anyway.” Among the first days of bee lessons from David I learned that bees will find a lot of reasons to be disagreeable, highest among them weather and season. Working with bees during rain in late summer, for example, is sure to be awfully uncomfortable.

smoker- calms bees

    We set out in just these conditions nonetheless, generally assuming the rain will pass quickly even if it comes. Confident in yesterday’s successes, I enthusiastically pry open the first hive. Two exhaustive sweeps later, I declare the queen in hiding. It begins to rain in bigger drops. David, embroiled in his own hive, waves me down the line to the next hive with an upturned brick. Remembering he had deemed this colony aggressive, I gingerly remove the lid, feeder, and seal. I snub the smoker, trusting more in my bee suit to prevent attacks than my skill finding a queen hiding from the smoke.

    As I peel back the plastic sheet directly over the frames, I immediately rethink that decision- 6 bees zoom toward my hands, aiming at the seam between glove and suit, seeking any breaks in continuity. Rattled, I walk away a little, trying to compromise something like a gentle swat to remove them. I can smell that they mean to attack (bees give off a scent when angry), and warily watch the hive from a ways off. When I go back with the frame-grabber in hand, it’s with the reassurance that I still haven’t been stung, and I can trust my suit. On one hand, I had been joking for days that I can never be a real beekeeper until I’m stung, on the other hand, it’s obviously quite painful and I didn’t mind continuing to put it off.

line of hives

    I unstick the first frame, trying to reimagine the buzzing as friendlier. Suddenly, the buzzing is a lot closer. I look up, feel the bee buzz against my ear inside my hood, and begin to panic. I grab my hood and make motions toward isolating the bee away from my head, I suppose, while shouting something surely incomprehensible to David. He comes right over, but I’m already stung on the head, just back from my left temple. Still panicking (I can hear the bee continue to buzz around in my hair and above my head), I retreat further into the suit and make wilder thrashing motions.  “What do I do! What do I do!” Reassuringly he grabs me and directs me down the road away from the hives (I can’t see- my head is in the body part of my suit). We need to get away from the bees so that I can take my hood off and get the bee out. My thrashing subsides as the buzz of the dying bee lessens (bees die without their stinger). David chortles a bit at what must feel like my drunken stumbling, and I embarrassedly calm down, wincing at the sting and noticing how disheveled my tshirt has become in my bee suit. David stops me, brushes off the last few stragglers, and opens my hood. When I emerge, bleary, he has the culprit between his thumb and finger, thoroughly squished (I’m sure he takes boyish pleasure in bug guts, still). I find the site of the sting with my fingers and clear the hair away so he can check for the stinger. Finding none, David congenially suggests we take a break now, and we head back to the car for sandwiches and coffee. Out from under the trees he must have steered us toward, I notice how heavily it has started raining. In the truck I recover and David laughs that I have at last received my wish! I laugh too and we turn back to plans for the bees. The rain is clearing up, but David declares the situation probably hopeless, so we close up the hives and then head back to the shop to resume more mundane activities for the afternoon.

Finding the Queen- Beekeeping in Sweden

    Ok, to the present: For the past week or so I have lived in southern Sweden with a beekeeper and his family. I’m here through an organization called WWOOF, which places interested volunteers with organic farms around the world. In exchange for a place to live and meals, the wwoofer works and learns about farming on the job. A little bit atypically for wwoofing, I am learning and doing beekeeping.

     

     At this time of year, the honey harvesting is finishing, bees are winding down for the season, and the beekeeper turns to a list of other tasks. This week we have been doing a lot of queen exchanges- in hives that have been marked with undesirable traits (primarily aggressiveness, or the tendency to swarm), we find and kill the queen, and replace her with a queen bred from known pedigree to lack those traits.

     Basic bee biology: in a hive there is one queen, many tens of thousands of female worker bees, and a variable but lesser amount of male drones. The queen is in charge. She lays all the eggs, fertilized or not to become a worker or drone. The hive centers on this basic function- other things such as pollination and honey collection are for the ancillary purpose of eating.  Basically (as I can tell to be the case) the beekeeper tends the bees to take their honey, and may feed them with sugar water so they survive the winter.

can you spot the queen? she's marked

We set out both yesterday and today to far-flung locations of groups of hives (David has maybe a dozen hives in about a dozen places? It adds up to a lot of driving because optimally productive bees are picky about location). After my two or three days of exposure to bees in frames (wooden frames of wax cells filled with honey, pollen, brood, or larva) David saw fit to equip me with a bee suit, grabber (sort of forceps for grabbing frames from the hive), and knife (more of a little pry-bar/chisel, for prying apart things stuck together with wax or honey), and set me on a hive to find the queen.

     I warned him from the first one, “David, I am not very optimistic.” He replied, “Well, optimism is the first thing.” Ok, great. When I ask for more identifying traits of the queen, besides the fact that she is bigger, he says unhelpfully- “Well, maybe her abdomen looks different. Also, the bees around her will act differently.” Ugh. The strategy is to start with the frames (ten in a hive, housing about 30,000 bees altogether this time of year) that have the most brood- or unhatched bees, because the queen will have been there recently. Additionally, when the beekeeper reaches to grab the frame where the queen is located, the bees may start to make a different noise, agitated at her disturbance. A bee colony is freakily connected, in a way reminiscent of the Borg from Star Trek (I’m sure, an intentional reference).

David and I, suited up

     But when it comes down to it, you are looking for one bee, almost identical to the others, in tens of thousands. I clung to the method and dove in, enjoying the cloud of bees that curiously (but not aggressively) rose around my whole body. Four frames in, I spot her. !!! Lucky chance, I reason. David congratulates me, hands over the clip to catch her, and takes her back to kill her himself (tacitly but considerately not forcing that task on me). We take one of the good queens and release her into a little box tacked to a frame filled with older brood about to be born. Those bees are most likely to accept and take care of the queen, instead of attacking her. In a few days, after her pheromones have spread, she will chew her way out of the little plastic box and reign at large.

     Tentatively energized, I move onto the next marked hive. Sure enough, I find this queen as well. A bit cheaply- she was marked with a blue dot from a previous experiment. David is struggling with his the second hive, having given up on the first. He sends me to the first hive to give it a try. Sure enough, a few minutes later I spot her, strutting around on the third frame.

     And I begin to get it- really, the queen’s main point of distinction is that she is unpinpointably different. When scanning frames with thousands of bees one can’t be assessing minor differences in abdomen length or color. It’s easier, and more practical, just to look and feel, because ultimately she will make herself known. No single difference will jump out, but everything about her together will shout different. How she walks, her general demeanor, the way she interacts with the cells and those around her. She is also bigger, and often colored differently (but not consistently differently), but these factors stick out less.

     Pleased with my realization, I move to help David with the fourth hive, nearing a stage of impossibility. At a certain point, the strategy will no longer work if the bees have become agitated enough to hide the queen in some corner where we will never find her. Instead, we toss all the bees out (maybe you can imagine the ensuing cloud), and set the hive back up. The worker bees will all find their way back the hive, but the queen won’t fit in the entrance. The worker bees will instead find the new queen, protected in her box until they accept her as theirs.

     Unfazed by this last submission, I go home pleased with my modest victories of the day. David sensibly withholds too much admiration, because the next afternoon I prove my skills to be significantly subject to chance. Nonetheless, I am pleased with the strides I have made in this miniscule field of queen-location, with hopes of continuing improvement.

Paris

 

Ok- time now for catching up. I think I last wrote in Turkey, from where I traveled haphazardly through Europe for a couple weeks before landing in Sweden, my location from now until when I go home. I probably won’t write in order, but there is a handy map I updated with the order of my journey if you’re interested. Cheers!

     Did you know that wine can stain lips? I feel as though Horace probably mentioned this somewhere (‘her wine-stained lips’ ?), but that I discounted it as poetic license meant to be interpreted that Horace loves women. Because in general, that seems to be the accepted interpretation of Horace.

Pistache, whom I lovingly address as 'fat cat'

     But it can! Maybe only if consumed slowly enough, or over enough time, or in Paris. All of which were the case for my second night in Paris. I was traveling with Kami, a long-lost sort of friend from middle school, and Matthew, a friend of hers from college. We decided that afternoon that the optimal, and optimally French?, evening would comprise French wine, cheese, baguettes, candles, and Cat Stevens (that last decision came later as the result of options on hand).

     The idea occurred when we encountered a line of shops, cheese and wine next to each other. We began in the cheese shop, where we were directed to select wine first (I think- Kami and Matthew speak French, so I, the deaf-mute, tagged along only intermittently engaged). We browsed the wine shop a bit by ourselves first, generally impressed by the low prices, but otherwise lost. Eventually we got the attention of the young man at the counter, who explained that he is just an economics student intern, but that he can more or less mimic what his boss tells people. A leisurely conversation later, we took two bottles of similar types (heavy, fruity?), but different years- a more interesting point of comparison. I stood by idly and admired the way French men dress (official theory: they are not necessarily more attractive than American men, they are just many many times more attentive to their appearance. With very positive results).

     We pull up our hoods to the rain and go just next door, where we wait our turn for the attention of one of three cheesemen. It only took a moment for him to ascertain that we were both going to speak French and were genuinely interested in learning about cheese, and he warmed up to us. I enjoyed watching him because although I understood very little of what he said, it was nonetheless very apparent to me how passionate he was about cheese. He spoke with his whole body, punctuating certain words with scarily widened eyes. He said for the wine we had chosen, we want a soft cheese with a less strong flavor, so as not to overpower the strong wine. We then asked for a recommendation for an inappropriately strong cheese, just to try. Somehow we were directed to munster, which now I suspect must have been a joke (maybe I should have known when he turned to me to provide a one-word translated summary: stinky). Unable to distinguish the munster from all the other cheeses in the shop, we happily took a quarter and left with both in hand.

     A few errands later (and increasing suspicions about the munster emitting strong aromas from Kami’s backpack) we were on the last train back to Le Val D’Or, the little town on the edge of Paris where we were staying in a vacationing friend of Kami’s.

     As planned, the evening was quite perfect. We uncorked the wine, roughly chopped the baguette, cleaned up the living room, located a cd player, cds, candles, rearranged lamps and chairs. Finally we sat down, overcame the moment of self-consciousness at our efforts, and commenced our evening.

The Reason I haven’t been writing any entries and An Update

     Every few days I have a notion of concocting a blog entry out of something, only to be at a loss for inspiration and put it off. This cycle at some point turned to a curiosity about why I don’t seem to have anything to report anymore. Still not certain about the reason, I think it might be that I am no longer in ‘travel mode’ but ‘living mode.’ My life in Istanbul is really unbelievably idyllic, in part because I really am just living here, instead being in the constant state of discovery and surprise that I was previously. Public transportation has become routine, I know what I like to eat and where I get it, I know what’s what and where it is, and how to go about what I would like to be doing.  

     My past weekend here I think exactly parallels what it would have been had I been enjoying a summer at home with minimal obligations. On Friday after class I went with a Greek friend to a hamam, the preparations for and recovery from which comprise an entire afternoon. I went home and napped, then headed out for a night dancing with my Peruvian friend and her classmates from another Turkish school. Of course, exactly the same as at home, I had to be a little hoodwinked into the situation.  I had been told there was a rembetika band they’d like to see and we’d get some drinks.  But many many hours later we were still dancing with the old Greek men and young hip Turks and I was thrilled to be there. I spent Saturday with the same Greek friend, her Turkish boyfriend, and their friends from college. We rented a boat and cruised the Bosporus, eating watermelon and going for swims. On Sunday I finally relaxed, grabbing breakfast with my American roommate, mozying over to the Greek Patriarchate to catch the end of mass, doing internet errands in a café, watching cartoons with my Turkish roommates.

     This weekend, I think, is pretty much what it would have been were I at home, but Turkish.  Thus, no real revelations or mishaps to report. Even going to the hamam was a comfortable familiar experience this time.

Probably my blog will resume soon though, as my summer enters its next/last phase. My two months in Istanbul end this weekend when a friend from home, Kerry, will come. We will travel together via Lesvos to mainland Greece, from where we will fly to Paris. In Paris, Kerry will go on to England, while I’ll meet a friend from middle school, Kami, with whom I will spend two weeks making an as-of-yet unplanned circuit of/jaunt through France. We will begin and end in Paris, and probably hit at least Geneva (not France, I know, but close), and Strasbourg.

     Then, finally confirmed, I will be headed to the southern Swedish peninsula of Blekinge, where I will live and work on a farm, of sorts. The organization WWOOF sets up exchanges for volunteers to come to organic farms and work in exchange for housing and food. My host, David, is a beekeeper, and I will be learning a bit about his trade, living in the renovated boathouse, and picking wild berries and mushrooms with his primary school-aged children. I’ll stay there for two weeks or so before taking the short train to Copenhagen, where I will explore for a couple days until my flight home. (Home! Home.)

     I wasn’t actually interested in going home at all, until very recently (I left home some 4 and a half months ago). Three weeks ago I realized I was halfway through my stay in Turkey and panicked a bit, not at all nearing ready to leave. The result of that was that I developed a firm intention to come back to Turkey, as soon as just after graduation. With that comfort in place, I stopped panicking, and began looking to the rest of my summer. Including going home. Perhaps now that I have a date, and a plane ticket, I’ve begun to allow myself to look forward to it. It’s all in flux, though. Once I’m on the move again in a few days, home might regain its place as a distant, non-urgent eventuality.  

Notes on being American

     Being an American abroad isn’t really what I thought it would be. In the US, I think I was set up to expect something along the lines of either fawning admiration or enraged hatred. The United States has the most exported of cultures, and can provoke anything but indifference.

     As a result of this expectation, I’ve been both conscious of how I comport myself and wary of revealing my American-ness. On the one hand, I would prefer not to be immediately associated with speaking volume, ignorance, obesity, white sneakers, and America’s policies toward the Middle East for the past ten years. On the other hand, when my nationality is apparent, I’m excited to make a more positive impression – polite, linguistically and culturally aware, interested in getting to know a country beyond its most visible attractions.

It seems, though, that I rarely encounter anyone whose impression of America/ns need extreme mending. My response ‘Amerikalıyım’ prompts a generic ‘ohh’ given to travelers from most other countries. The ones that provoke a more interesting response are usually exceptionally distant and/or uncommon origins for tourists: Peru or South Africa, for example. Americans, Koreans, and western Europeans make up a significant portion of tourists here, and Germans and Russians seem to commonly move here as spouses. These groups, as a result, prompt little interest.

     More often than having to uphold my national identity, I successfully avoid classification. Most generally, when someone will hazard a guess as to my home country, I am perceived as German. Sometimes Dutch, Danish, even Russian, rarely have I been guessed American. On one hand, I wonder if they realize how pleased I am not to be thought American. On the other hand, I recognize that the combination of my ambiguous clothing, shoes, and haircut shout anything but. My nondescript clothing, inimitably practical footwear, and self-styled mop hair I suppose probably are more at home in central Europe than the US (though, undoubtedly, never never mistaken for Turkish. If my light hair isn’t enough, my shoes and backpack leave no doubt. Turkish women on average don’t value pragmatism immensely).

     My passable knowledge of Turkish pleasantries, as well, is a bit un-American. Much to my delight, both courses I’ve taken here have been populated completely by non-Americans. Both months we’ve had at least a couple Koreans, Germans, Greeks, and Russians, as well as other Eastern Europeans, a couple South Americans, and a mix from the rest of the Middle East and Western Europe. The other young people walking the streets practicing Turkish with simitçiler are either relatively local, or married to a local. That leaves some Americans, but relatively few.

     In the end, being American leaves me right where I’d like to be – neither rejected nor effusively welcomed, with no more expectations than any other. I never have to defend myself, and never receive preference (except maybe in visa offices, and such). Overall being American, at least for me, is very akin to not being American. Which, for someone trying to travel in countries on their own terms, is pretty good.

Intercity Bus Travel

     To a pretty significant portion of the Turkish population, long-distance buses are a familiar part of life. Dozens and dozens of companies run buses from and to most cities of a certain size in a dizzying array of combinations and schedules. As a result, any given person who doesn’t have a car can get just about anywhere in the country in about the same time a car would take, without paying exorbitant prices for gas (average price converts to $10.52/gallon).

     I’ve spent my weekday afternoons in Istanbul, and weekends in (relatively) nearby cities and places. Consequently, I’ve frequented Turkey’s private buses more in the past few weeks than many have in months and months. Conveniently, I really enjoy buses, and long bus rides (a necessity in such a big country, where even seemingly close cities can be nine hours away).  In Turkey, though, bus rides are a bit different from what I expected. I guess I have never ridden long-distance American buses, but I think they’re a bit different here.

     First thing at departure time, the bus aide checks to make sure the correct seats are unoccupied. The bus aide (I’m not sure what to call him), is invariably a just post-adolescent boy wearing a garish uniform of some sort (orange pinstripe shirt, orange pin-on bowtie, outrageously pleated pants). His demeanor is impressively eager to please, and pleasant even after long hours of riding. If a seat is unoccupied that shouldn’t be, the bus may wait four or five extra minutes to see if the tardy person shows up.

     Next the aide checks the destination of each passenger – when arriving back to Istanbul, bus companies provide shuttles to specific neighborhoods (a godsend when the alternative is to find my own way from the bus station an hour from home in the middle of the night). That settled, the aide passes down the aisle to distribute water. Sometimes it’s in covered disposable cups (I think I’ve seen apple juice in cafeterias packaged as such in the US), sometimes he pours from a large bottle into Dixie cups. Water distribution happens once every couple hours, or anytime at request.

     A little while later he will often distribute some kind of snack. Typically, it’s a packaged cake of some sort. More excitingly, once I was given a cheese and tomato sandwich, once an ice cream cup, and once something that may have been dried chickpeas? I keep trying out new bus companies to see what I might receive next. Usually, especially for longer rides, a few times through the trip the aide will set up a special cart from which he distributes tea, instant coffee, juice, or soda. On one of my first bus rides, I was surprised from behind by an aide pouring lemon-scented kolonya (cologne) from what resembled a salad-dressing bottle into my hands.

     The other exciting feature of bus rides are the rest stops, once every three hours or so. I suppose Turkish rest stops aren’t much different from American ones, but being Turkish, they hold a certain excitement. Rest stops offer bathrooms (usually with a small fee), a mescit (prayer area), and a wide variety of food. Sometimes it’s an all-out cafeteria, with full hot meals offered, sometimes it’s the more basic fare of tost, pastries, and burgers. I usually get tost, a pressed grilled cheese sandwich. Food is typically extremely cheap. Stops are twenty minutes or so – though I never quite figure it out because the announcements are made in garbled short-hand. I have also learned to wear pants or a skirt when possible – even when headed to a rugged, touristy location like Cappadocia, 3 am rest stops are still made in rural areas where a majority of the people I brush past will be visibility surprised, offended, or uncomfortable about my shorts.

     I’ve learned that overnight buses are the way to go. Not only do you save paying for accommodation, and you don’t waste daylight hours on a bus, but you are guaranteed a spectacular sunrise off in some isolated region of Turkey. How great! Somehow twelve hours shrinks to nothing.