Coffee Chains, Bike Chains, Power Chains

Coffee to go isn't such a popular idea in Berlin.  People like to be European.  People are European.  They like their hot drink in a mug.  They like to sit down at a table, to chat, to drag on a cigarette and blow out swirling shapes.  Latte macchiatos are grand affairs, served in large, clear glasses with dollops of foam that makes an American Starbucks barista look like the amateur she is.  In the afternoon, expect a piece of kuchen alongside that espresso.  Happy thought indeed.

This being said, let it be known that the coffee here--regular, black coffee--is terrible.  Everywhere.  Only the big chains serve decent black coffee.  And I don't like big chains.

Another terrible thing?  German drivers.  Ghastly.  Truly horrifying.  As Jessie says, this is why German cars are so good.  I have never seen such horrible driving - they have absolutely no idea what to do, where to turn the car, how far to pull forward or back out.  Given the number of bicycle riders in Berlin, myself included, it's amazing there aren't more cycling fatalities on the roads.  This, I suspect, is why cyclists ride on the sidewalks.

The practice situation has somewhat resolved itself this week because I didn't go to German class.  Sadly, playing hooky isn't a permanent solution, and starting tomorrow, I must resume the student life.  However, I do appreciate all the suggestions that my concerned readers put forward.  It just so happens that my favorite is also the most practical - a chain saw.  Easy to fold up and carry around in my pocket, of course.  

A chain saw. Imagine the fear of those who dare disturb my practice!  Imagine the power I will have over the piano!

You evil black monster, if I hear any wrong notes, I WILL HACK YOU TO BITS!!!!!!

It'll wish it had never left those innocent, by-gone days in the forest as a young sapling.

I WILL PUNISH YOU LIKE YOU PUNISH ME!!!!!!

*whirrrrrrzzzzzzKKKKHHHCKHCKHCKCHKHKHKHETHEKTH*

A short homage to the best non-classical musician I've ever heard

Seriously people, James Blunt's voice is just too high and wimpy.

One of the greatest musical tragedies of the last decade (heck, of the last century) was the death of Jeff Buckley in 1997 at the age of 30 in a drowning accident. His music makes me cry every time.

If you've never heard Jeff Buckley, go IMMEDIATELY to iTunes and purchase:

-Hallelujah (from Grace - the most incredible cover of Leonard Cohen you will ever hear)
-Lilac Wine (from Grace)
-Morning Theft (from Sketches for My Sweetheart the Drunk)

A fourth recommendation is Dream Brother (from Grace).

What a voice. What a guitar player. I am haunted knowing the voice in my headphones is a dead man's.


"There was a time in my life not too long ago when I could show up in a cafe and simply do what I do, make music, learn from performing my music, explore what it means to me...In this situation I have that precious and irreplaceable luxury of failure, of risk, of surrender." - Jeff Buckley, 1996

Madder, Then Hell

I am enraged.

First, background information.

I am a pianist.
Pianists, by and large, are anti-social creatures wanting nothing more than space, silence, and a piano.
I am a pianist with major audition coming up in February.
I am a pianist with possibly two lessons next weekend with my very demanding teacher who has been gone for a month.
I am a pianist playing the hardest, nastiest, most difficult, demanding, musically challenging, arm-aching piece of my life.  Schumann Etudes Symphoniques.  I'm also playing late Beethoven.  This is no easy task.
I live in somebody else's house, I haven't got a piano, I get up at 5am to ride my bike in the cold German winter to a church with a Steinway downstairs and a little upright upstairs.  I share the space and with two singers, two organists, a harpsichordist, several choirs, two wind bands, a daycare, and multiple services.  Now that Christmas season has arrived, the number of services and various rehearsals of all kinds have multiplied.

Some days, somebody forgets to show up for practice time.  Some days, I get lucky and stay extra hours.  Those days, I don't eat, don't stop, don't rest my hands, and don't sleep because I know that the next day will throw some unexpected wrench into everything and I won't get to practice enough.  Like today.

Yesterday, I did two hours in the morning before getting kicked out for a rehearsal.  Then I did four hours in the afternoon.  I asked the harpsichordist very sweetly that morning that if he was feeling generous later in the day and wanted to let me practice during his time to please let me know.  It worked.  I stayed almost three hours more.  My hands have never ached so much in my life.  I couldn't play another note.  I literally could not move my fingers anymore.  But I practiced the entire Schumann and the variation mvmt of Beethoven Op. 109.  Really working that much music in one day is rare for me.

This morning, I woke up at 6am, talked to relatives half way across the world, and started practicing around 7:15 because I thought I had until 10, when the first singer is supposed to come.  Nope.  8am sharp, the meanest, nastiest, rudest janitor in existence comes barging in, waving his arms at me and screaming in German to GET OUT BECAUSE HE HAS TO CLEAN.

Background: this foul, vile, evil, contemptible, horrible horrible squat Japanese man comes twice a week for two hours, Wednesday and Saturday mornings.  He never has a set time.  Last week he came at 10.  He screams at everyone who dares to practice in there (except for one soprano - he lets her stay).  WHY does HE get to call the shots?  Why can't he clean WHILE we practice?  I screamed back in German that I was NOT GOING TO LEAVE because I HAD TO PRACTICE.  He screamed back, and since I had already used up my entire German vocabulary, I slammed the piano shut and stomped out, nearly crying with fury.

He is the first person in Germany that I truly hate.  I battled a very strong desire to lock all the church doors and set it on fire while he was cleaning.

So from 8-10, I had the option of practicing on the upright.  In some situations, this is ok.  But I'm exhausted, my hands are exhausted, and I can't deal with an unresponsive action and naturally ugly sound.  There's no point in pushing my hands on an instrument like this - too much work with too little result.  So I practiced a little, lay on the wood floor because my back hurts, thought up dastardly punishments, bought some bread from a bakery, and went back to the Steinway at 10.

The singer didn't show.  Aha, I thought, I can practice until 2pm now.

45 minutes later, the local teenage wind band came in.  
"Wann sind Sie fertig?"  
"Um eins."
Great.

So here I am, sitting in a room that I rent but isn't really mine, waiting until 1pm so I can go practice for an hour.  Then the harpsichordist comes from 2-5.  Then maybe I can practice more.  But usually the church organist comes in for two hours.  And there've been an increasing amount of choir rehearsals on Saturday evenings.

You know, I really bust my ass to do everything I can.  Even in an ideal situation (Glenn Gould's lakeside Canadian house, for example), it's never enough.  In this situation, it REALLY isn't enough.  The inconsistency of it all is exhausting - I practice too much, I don't practice enough, I can't practice, I have to practice frantically, I ride my bike back and forth waiting for some time, I can't leave the church for fear I'll come back and somebody will have taken over....

The saving grace is the quality of the Steinway (very good) and the fact that when nobody kicks me out, I really am left alone.

But come February, if I don't pass the audition because of a despicable, nefarious cleaning man, there will be hell to pay.

Update? Fine.

1. I finally (finally finally finally) have internet in my place of residence.
2. I am taking Matthew's advice and working my fingers to the bone.
3. Today I needed three band-aids - both thumbs and right index finger for those of you who are morbidly curious.
4. I was reminiscing about past Thanksgivings today, and my next post will be about some memorable occasions.
5. I have a lesson in a week from tomorrow. I probably shouldn't even sleep. Or eat. Or go to German class. Who cares about the Dative case anyway?

An Interview

(Variations on a Theme by G.G.)

a.n.: This is quite a surprise.
A.N.: Indeed?
a.n.: The irony of our both being Americans, English-speakers, yet my first interview with such a personage--such an American, English-speaking personage, that is--takes place in Berlin.
A.N.: If you were hoping for an interview in German, I'm afraid the result would be very short.
a.n.: And we mustn't disappoint the public.
A.N.: You flatter me.
a.n.: Is there anything you'd like to begin with, general impressions of Berlin, life abroad, adjusting to a new culture, new language, new climate?
A.N.: No.
a.n.: No? Shall I begin my questions instead?
A.N.: It rains a lot here.
a.n.: The excitement of a waterlogged existence! Now, tell me--
A.N.: I would like to discuss something, actually, that has been bothering me for quite some time--the abundance of empty holes lying about the sidewalks and streets.
a.n.: Would you care to describe the nature of these...holes?
A.N.: I would. Every 10 feet, especially in East Berlin, is a little dirt hole on the side of the sidewalk, unattended, unused. A person may meet several of them on the way to a cafe--I daresay they are most agreeable despite their plight. Twice a block, another phenomenon appears--mounds of dirt and rock. Somebody, perhaps from that very meticulous German government we keep hearing about, dug holes in the ground, poured the dirt and rocks into a pile a few yards down the road, got bored, and decided to quite half-way through.
a.n.: Have you any possible explanation for such behavior?
A.N.: It is a mystery. I have heard no plausible answers. Perhaps the Communists dug the holes, but the Soviet Union collapsed before they could fill them back up.
a.n.: How do you find that meticulous German government, Ms. N?
A.N.: Surprisingly lax.
a.n.: Any other adjectives to give our readers a clearer picture? You have a reputation, you know, for adjectives.
A.N.: Weedy.
a.n.: The government?
A.N.: No, the streets. Sometimes I suspect they end up in my salad.
a.n.: The streets?
A.N.: No, the weeds.
a.n.: Ms. N, I've been waiting for many months to ask you this next question, and I beg that you carefully consider your answer, for what I'd like to say is of a matter so delicate, so multifaceted and complex, that--
A.N.: That reminds me! Today I was mulling--mulling, mulled, mulled wine, that sounds nice in the winter--today I was mulling the idea of American feminism. American feminism is a beast that since let loose, has consumed all the hapless females of the stars and stripes and has made them forbidding, and hostile to the uglier sex. It's a ghastly turn of events. Even the anti-feminist female approaches anti-feminism in a feminist way. There are no prisoners, none; every woman, weak and mild, strong and independent, has tattooed on her forehead, albeit invisibly, "Don't date me. I'm an American woman."
a.n.: You are much too hard on your own sex, and, if I dare say so, quite mistaken.
A.N.: Perhaps you are correct in generalizing my generalization, so know that I mainly draw on my own observations and experiences.
a.n.: How do you mean?
A.N.: For example, going on dates gives me the creeps.
a.n.: That's not very promising, is it?
A.N.: Telling this to an American male--really, any male--is a wonderful satisfaction. They deserve it. Long live estrogen!
a.n.: Do you mean to tell me that a life devoid of these beings would be a triumph of will? Perhaps somewhere, deep in your murky, stone-cold heart, you see the human race, males and females alike, in a fairer, more hopeful light?
A.N.: Well, I admit...there's a certain elevator scene in Grey's Anatomy that....
a.n.: All right, I've had quite enough of this.
A.N.: If you don't care to discuss the merits of prime-time television, I perfectly understand--
a.n.: I've spent days--DAYS--preparing notes for this interview, probing questions, shocking counter-answers, witty starters, poignant closers, and all we've talked about is soil and elevators!
A.N.: As the French say...(pause)...I've quite forgotten what the French say.
a.n.: You may have forgotten the French, but I remember my German quite well: Verpiss dich!

Observations from a rainy Saturday afternoon

Behind the locked door, a sitting room, cold and musty with tired decor that has passed into silence with its era, an antique writing desk that died with its owner. Another locked door, this time shielding two twin beds side-by-side, closets of unworn clothing, an old table lamp, stacks of boxes, memories of children grown up and gone. A third locked door, in the bowels, old leathern easy chairs cowering behind dusky cobwebs and ancient desks, a prehistoric computer crouching in a far corner, piles of boots, knickknacks from a decade when Communist fears penetrated these walls and darkened the sky, wall-hangings, photographs, albums, a faint odor of gas and ghosts left behind. A fourth locked door, an attic, partitioned into unequal quarters, open rafters and creaky floorboards, two massive oak wardrobes stuffed with mothballs and old-fashioned dresses, comatose suits, things long forgotten.

Half of the house is dormant, pushed away, closed up, a perpetual state of dream, almost dead. But not quite. With a slip of the key, at a turn of the doorknob, the silent beast stirs, caressing the senses with icy drafts, sad, forbidden, lost, pleading for remembrance, or for peace. Someday, upon the passing of the last living remnant in this memory, the torment of these empty rooms will finally slip away.

In many ways, my whole life is ahead of me, assuming of course that I survive long enough to have a whole life. But with every day, things, memories, items of the past find their way behind my own locked door, abstract though it may be. At the end of my day, what will I have locked up, tried to forget? There's something to be said for destroying the past instead of holding on. No keys. I hope I'd have the courage to air out the musty rooms, get rid of their contents, move on, simulaneously acknowledging what was and letting it all go. Only after this can one embrace what is alive, what is real, what is.

The Quotable Glenn Gould

In my solitude, I converse with dead people. Spirits, really, ghosts, strongly felt yet invisible presences of those who continue to haunt my footsteps past, present, future. Here are some things that my own, particular, favorite soul, freed from his earthly body, has replied back.

The following two excerpts from Glenn Gould Interviews Glenn Gould About Glenn Gould:

GG: Let's say, for example, that I had been privileged to reside in a town in which all the houses were painted battleship gray.
gg: Why battleship gray?
GG: It's my favorite color.
gg: It's a rather negative color, isn't it?
GG: That's why I like it.

gg: Apart from being a frustrated member of the board of censors, is any other career of interest to you?
GG: I've often thought that I'd like to try my hand at being a prisoner.
gg: You regard THAT as a career?
GG: Oh certainly--on the understanding, of course, that I would be entirely innocent of all charges brought against me.
gg: Mr. Gould, has anyone suggested that you could be suffereing from a Myshkin complex?

"Every artist is in a state of flux or he wouldn't be an artist."

And on a more serious note:

"I believe that the justification of art is the internal combustion it ignites in the hearts of men and not its shallow, externalized, public manifestations. The purpose of art is not the release of a momentary ejection of adrenaline but is, rather, the gradual, lifelong construction of a state of wonder and serenity."


Play on, Mr. Gould, play on.

Ugs, and I don't mean umgangsprachlich

I am an extremely lazy person. It's horrendous. I am ashamed. And I take the opportunity to milk my days of sickness for all they're worth.

I am going to do LAUNDRY tonight and clean my ROOM. THEN I will NOT sleep in tomorrow but will WAKE UP EARLY and learn that thorn-in-my-side FINALE of the Symphonic Etudes. Then I will go to German class as I always do, and IMMEDIATELY AFTERWARDS I will PRACTICE until they THROW ME OUT. Then I will download the latest episode of my one allowed indulgence in life and spend the evening, I hope, with McDreamy. Unless iTunes pulls a fast one like last week and doesn't post the new episode until Saturday. Then I will be MAD.

Ich bin krank.

But I'm feeling better today.

To come soon: a most amusing experiment in the style of Glenn Gould. Check back in a couple days.

Quote of the Week

"If you don't practice, I'm going to break your bones and throw you out the window."

- my wonderful, generous, kind (no, really) piano teacher