Sure as Heckfire

February 2nd! In the US, this is Groundhog Day. In France it is CREPE day! Say what you will about the French, but they sure know how to celebrate the 2nd of February.

February 1st was pretty good, too. For one thing, I managed to wake up and say "rabbits, rabbits, rabbits" right away, which means I will have a lucky month. I believe this. In fact, I've already made several lucky discoveries, such as how to download music from the internet (I may be a bit behind on this) and how to successfully book a hotel room over the phone in French (this isn't so much a discovery as it is a personal achievement--it goes on my resume). I also started classes on February 1st, which isn't necessarily a good thing, but doesn't appear to be all that bad, either. My political socialization class seems to be exactly what I expected, and I'm excited to see where it goes. I have some misgivings about US Foreign Policy, which, judging by the first class, could easily become "Unqualified Extrapolating from American Stereotypes 101," but my bizarre instructor gives me hope. He's French-Canadian, which, rather than fitting him somewhat comfortably between the French and Anglophone camps, appears to make him almost universally despised--something he seems to be uncomfortably aware of. Actually, now that I think about it, I'm not all that sure that anyone actually has anything against the Quebecois (except maybe the rest of Canada every time a referendum comes up), but this guy had an inferiority complex so crushing and obvious (the first 10 minutes of the class were spent making self-deprecating Canada jokes, goofily displaying the Canadian flag, and repeatedly announcing how nervous he was) that even I began to feel like a bully. Anyhow, this morning I managed to make it only 5 minutes late to my 8:00 AM French cinema class, where I passed the morning in a catatonic daze. The small part of me that was approaching lucid managed to hold a conversation with the French guy sitting next to me, whose keen interest in talking to the disheveled, semi-sleeping American girl puzzled me to no extent. After that came the least-promising introductory class ever--the poetry workshop. I honestly don't know what to say about it. I really don't. I was sort of surprised to find out that nobody in the class had ever written poetry--I haven't either, but when it came to my attention that they had never read poetry, or, well...anything (it is the only explanation)...I became supremely uneasy and confused. I realize that these kids go to a school for social sciences, and this is what I must seem like to them in classes such as Espace Mondial (curses), but we analyzed Emily Dickinson's " Because I could not stop for death," for god's sake, and nobody had any idea what was going on. I know I must have seemed like the snootiest, most pretentious person in the room, but I was genuinely shocked--SHOCKED-- at the lack of basic analytical skills. I'd be surprised if my eyes didn't pop to world record size, I was so incredulous. But perhaps I'm being unfair. In fact, I'm sure I am. Writing poetry is not the same as reading it, and I'm sure I'll learn my place soon enough, but, even so, having the professor announce repeatedly that "there are no right answers in poetry" and that "a poem is like a song" does not bode well...

So, before I went off on a tangent about my classes and my very ugly story of academic outrage (which I would have never shared if I didn't have faith that the only people reading this know me well enough to understand or just excuse me), I intended to write about Berlin and post some pictures. Since I've already exceeded the readable amount of text in a blog post, I'll just put up the pictures.

Brandenburg Gate

Checkpoint Charlie

A mural from the East Side Gallery, a portion of the wall commemorating Berlin's history and celebrating it's unification with artwork.

Lisa at the Jewish Museum. This is by far one of the best museums I've ever visited. The lowest level is basically an architectural interpretation of Jewish experiences and history, divided into three axes: Exile, the Holocaust, and Continuity. The halls are chopped in bizarre ways and slope in unexpected directions and the whole experience is sort of disorienting. At the end of the axis of the Holocaust, there's the Tower of the Holocaust--a tall, empty, unheated grey chamber with one shaft of light and noise coming in from the street outside. It's meant to convey, as much as can be expected, what the Holocaust must have felt like to those who haven't experienced it. I'm usually an idiot when it comes to appreciating art and architecture, but even I had a strong reaction. The upper levels of the museum are basically a maze of Jewish artifacts and exhibits, which become increasingly interesting as you go on. But, dear lord, there are so many! After 3 and a half hours we just needed to get out and refuel, but had a ridiculously hard time finding the exit. If you google the building, you'll see why.

Beer accounted for a substantial portion of our cultural experience. It would be misleading not to acknowledge it. See also our amazing hosts Julien and Christian.

The future.

It was a short trip, but a great one. I managed to pack more into two days and three nights than I have in a long weekend, and everything went almost startlingly smoothly. The people I was with were really great and laid back and our primary host/tour guide is quite possibly the nicest, most accommodating person I have ever met. Would go back again in a heartbeat.

Update: Just found 7 jelly beans in my purse pocket! This truly is my luckiest month.