Berlin Stories and Memories

Spree RiverIn Goodbye to Berlin, author Christopher Isherwood reconstructs his experiences from the time he lived in Berlin in 1931. In his travels, he remains “a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking… Some day, all this will have to be developed, carefully printed, fixed.” He essentially becomes a window and his life passes by, in real time, clearly painted and illustrated. He describe his apartment, his busty landlady, his flat mates, the old prostitutes who frequent the bar around the corner. He invites the reader to not simply be an audience who reads his story and nods their head, but to participate in his daily life. I shadowed Isherwood as he went to cafes, operas, bars, and on dates. I enjoyed every cup of black coffee he had with Fritz and Sally, and smiled with recognition as he walked down Kunfuerstendamm. As I traveled with him, I thought of parallels of my own existence here in Berlin and felt incredibly proud – proud that an author so well encapsulated his lifestyle and these people in his book, and proud that I was able to relate to such a fairytale-style life. As I joined in Isherwood’s reminiscence, I reflect on the small details that will stick with me for the rest of my lfe. Cornelius is our landlord figure here; he lives next door and is our source for class advice and general student life. On our first group outing, I watched in fascination as he whipped a bag of tobacco out of his bag and popped a pinchful into a strip of paper. Without a single blink from behind his tiny round glasses, he rolled up a flawless cigarette in seconds. Another small memory of people that I’ll cherish is of a late-night Getränke (drink market & deli) a few blocks away, run by Riese, an older Turkish man, and his son Tuncay (pronounced “Toon-jai”). Whenever we stop by to get chocolates and wine, Riese gives us each a piece of candy. Christopher Isherwood understands the value of such simplistic, brief memories. In the way that he describes the cigarette-stained fingers of singer Sally Bowles, you know that he revels in his life, no matter how mundane, and drinks in every encounter as an experience for better or for worse. He recounts Berlin through his passive lens and absorbs every detail of every minute, every mannerism and detail of his acquaintances and surroundings. As I think about the people I’ve encountered so far, I imagine that there can’t be any other way to travel.