Ladies only!

Ladies: you might not get equal pay with your male colleagues, you might work your fingers to the bone 24/7 combining family/work/household duties, you might be a victim of sexual harassment, etc. etc. etc. but, hey, there is light at the end of the tunnel.  We have our own dedicated parking slots (here, they are for bicycles but there are also "ladies only" parking spaces in car parks).

Times are changing!!  Our struggle has been acknowledged!!

How patronising.  What a sop.  I don't know whether to be insulted or to laugh this off as a bad joke!

Searching for love in times of crisis

Oh dear, Parship, your ads are so cliché it's almost funny.  Those scantily clad young ladies, showing just a little too much flesh, dressed in what my mother would have called "lingerie".  All of them pretty, vapid, seductive (not to mention white, middle class and not a day over 30).  The young gentlemen, on the other hand, yes, from the same socioeconomic group but dressed (dare I say it) like puritans - not even with short sleeves!

What a pity that you have decided to stick with these tired stereotypes.

Drama queen

My knowledge of economics is rudimentary; I don't claim to understand much beyond the basics of supply and demand so I can't provide insight into this "crisis".  Oh, and that word, "crisis" - a time when a difficult or important decision must be made - the time for decision making seems to stretch for an eternity.

What follows is not a coherent analysis but rather observations on how this affair has been presented for public consumption, what has been highlighted and what has been conveniently overlooked.

 - o O o -

The (Western European) press has continuously presented this “crisis” in the classic good guy/bad guy dichotomy, with a very strong moral slant.  On the one side, we have the profligate, lazy Greek, who wants something for nothing, who doesn’t pay his taxes, who sits around in the sun all day long, sipping ouzo, and other such national stereotypes.  On the other side, we have the virtuous, frugal, hardworking German taxpayer who subsidizes the indolent Greek.  Such sweeping generalizations based on prejudice and stereotyping is only to be expected from certain sections of the press.  After all, one must pander to one’s paymaster.  Oh, yes, I admit, there are odd sob stories that come out now and again about the soup kitchens in Athens and cancer patients not being able to afford their life-saving medication, but these merely fulfil editors’ demands for the “human interest element” in their papers, something for the bored housewife to read during her coffee break, which is a lot lighter than economic analyses. 

It takes two to tango: if Greece borrowed money recklessly then somebody lent them that money recklessly.  But the press doesn’t focus on the lender’s side of the relationship too much.  (Here I remember the US banks that lent money to house buyers with low incomes, knowing full well that the new home owners would not be able to maintain payments for long, default, and the banks could then repossess – we know how that turned out.) By the same token, when Greece joined the EU and the Euro, didn’t those economists and financiers figure out that Greece had cooked the books a little? Would they have us believe that they were duped?

Greeks do not have a monopoly on corruption and tax evasion.  The Siemens scandal, Schäuble’s acceptance of a sizeable donation during Kohl’s term in office, all those Germans with Swiss bank accounts …….. These stories do not make the front page very often.  Then there are those numerous Germans (and other Europeans) who have bought up plots of land in the Greek countryside and built their holiday villas.  Some of them had to oil the wheels of bureaucracy (just like the Greeks) when buying their dream in the sun – especially if the land in question is outside the urban planning zone (which quite often it is).

Greece go it alone with the Drachma?  I don’t see it happening.  I don’t think the Bundesbank, oops sorry, the ECB, would like Greece to repay its debts in a worthless currency.  They would prefer Euros, of course.  And a Greece out of Europe is a loose cannon: not only would the EU’s much vaunted “unity” and “solidarity” be damaged, but Greece would then be free to flirt with other partners.  Russia is already wooing Tsipras – is Putin interested in exploiting Greece’s oil/gas deposits? Or wants to sell his own to Greece?  Both countries share the Orthodox religion and Cyrillic alphabet – tenuous links but perhaps these are enough to form a basis for collaboration.

A final word on the subject of hypocrisy: while Mrs. Merkel and her ministers are dictating to the Greeks how much of a pay cut they should take, the backroom boys are working on a deal to sell German arms to the Greek government, weapons and armaments they don’t need and can’t afford.  What they give to Greece in financial help, they get back in arms sales.  This does not get into the mainstream press.  (I forget the exact statistics, but Greece is something like third on the list of Germany’s top arms buyers – not bad for a country on the verge of bankruptcy).

Is there a solution? I think not. This is a country in the strangle hold of the church, with an inadequate education system, crumbling infrastructure, little computerisation in public life, dysfunctional public services, etc. etc. etc. And this was even before the "crisis".  Greece's creditors are obviously not in the charity business; they expect a return on their money and like everyone else, they want their cut.

So much attention to this Greek drama, and so much (biased) press attention  because if Greece goes down, she's taking some others down with her. And this is what it's all about: self preservation.

Greece has never done anything alone, without help from outside. This goes right back even to the War of Independence in 1821 against the Ottoman Empire. Sympathisers and Philhellenes provided funding. 

Hypocrisy on a mammoth scale

World Cup, Brazil, 2014

There's this photo that is floating around the internet at the moment which shows a woman rummaging for food inside a rubbish container.  At the same time, sports fans are streaming by next to her, on the street, (perhaps) oblivious to what is happening inside the container.

As it later transpires, the photo originated from 2013.  How it resurfaced a year later, only to be widely copied wholesale is a matter for Internet sleuths to figure out.  It certainly does highlight the social injustices that dominate daily life in the country, but should we need a huge "sports" event like this to remind us of the destitute that live in abject poverty?  At some point soon, the football matches will be over, the tourists will return home, and this woman will still be looking for scraps to eat, but no one will show any interest; there is simply no profit to be made from it.

The poor and the homeless are the pariahs of society, we don't want them to appear in front of us, pricking our conscience.  'Out of sight, out of mind.'  Some local authorities in Britain have built spikes into the ground in shop doorways to make it impossible to lay down.  Tramps have to move on and find somewhere else to doss down for the night.

Bottom line: Brazil does not enjoy a monopoly on poverty.  Perhaps we shouldn't criticise the Brazilians' inaction until all our own citizens are adequately housed, fed and schooled. 

The Empire is not quite dead yet

Butlers sells pretty things for the modern home all over Europe (and a bit outside its borders, too).  According to the New Order of Things, very little of the stuff (none?) they shift is made in Germany.  But there is nothing new here.  

Among the knick-knacks for sale are a variety of porcelain knobs for drawers and ceramic hooks à la Victoriana.  One such wall hook is decorated with a postage stamp showing Queen Victoria.  My first question upon seeing consumer goods is always "How much?" - My second question is always "Where is it manufactured?"  In this instance, the answer is India.

I wonder if the Indians who churn out these wall hooks realise that somebody is taking the Mickey, or thumbing their noses at them (i.e. exploiting them).  Even if they do, they may well be too young/poor to know who the well nourished woman is, or too hungry to care.

Funny how things turn out: decades have passed since all that rhetoric about "independence" from the imperial occupiers and the coming of "democracy" and "free market forces", yet India still has to churn out goods with the face of the Empress emblazoned on them.

Picture source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Queen_Victoria

To the flat hunter in Switzerland ...

..... looking for a flat to buy in Karl Marx Allee, I'm sorry that the blog post you stumbled upon didn't have anything to do with real estate and that you probably cursed Google Search under your breath (or out loud, come to that) for wasting your valuable time.  Still, you would have obtained a very general idea of the neighbourhood.  Personally, if I had the money to buy a flat in Karl Marx Allee, I'd buy one somewhere else where I would be allowed to change my old, draughty windows, if necessary.  And if my address read 'Hauptstraße' instead of 'Karl Marx Allee' that would be okay too.

What Olympics?

Somewhere along the line the message seems to have mutated into something completely different.

The first Olympic games were a time for sportsmanship, reconciliation and endeavour.  Hostilities were suspended, wars put on hold for a few days and warriors left their shields and swords at home in order to compete on the track.  No gold or silver prizes, only accolades and laurel wreaths.  Honour and glory attach to the victor's name, nothing else.

Today, instead of wars being suspended, they are intensified.  Crimes are committed against not just the Olympic spirit but against the very athletes themselves.  And on Olympic grounds as well.  These days, warriors do not leave their armour at home.  They take it with them into the games, to "protect" athletes and audience.  The army patrols the streets as if we lived under foreign occupation.  Honour as a prize has been sullied by the offering of cash, lucrative deals, exclusive rights, sponsorship, and monopolistic diktats.

Now here's a radical thought.  Organisers have no right to call the Olympic Games by that name.  Because there is not one atom remaining of the original Olympic ideal.  No connection whatsoever between 776 BCE and 2012.  How should we rename them?  Barclays Athletics Meet?  McDonald's Jamboree?  At least these are more honest.

Best foot forward

The hosiery department in the city centre store is decorated with huge posters of Manhattan, depicting sky scrapers and concrete jungles.  The connection with legwear is a bit obtuse.  After all, ladies all over the world wear hosiery and not just in Manhattan.  Why should a Munich store adorn its walls with pics of Manhattan?  Why not calming, Alpine scenes?  Probably because The Other is what sells tights and socks.  The association with the Exotic gets us dipping into our purses to splash out on new tights.  Pictures of home are too mundane, too dull, too .... ordinary.  

I bet if you visit a New York department store you'll see posters of (OK, maybe not Munich) Paris and London.  Just the right thing to lend an air of chic, European elegance to a new packet of tights.

p.s. legs belong to someone else

The various and devious ways of railway managers

It is a rare and wondrous occasion when a suburban train arrives at the time stated in the timetable, and even more wondrous when it drops you at your destination when you expect it to.  I have abandoned my little timetable book at home; it seems a waste of time consulting it when the contents therein bear little connection to reality. 

I sense that administrators are becoming more duplicitous in how they present delays/cancellations to the travelling public.  For instance, if a train is cancelled the station announcer doesn't just come out and say "Sorry, people, the 13.00 is cancelled."  Instead he says "The 13.00 train will arrive 20 minutes late."  The thing is, however, that trains run every 20 minutes, so does that mean that at 13.20 two trains will arrive, the delayed 13.00 together with the punctual 13.20?  I think you know the answer to that question.

Another psychological trick is to unplug the departure board.  Here the great unknown is at play.  The only certain information you are given is which are the next two trains, and you know which one the first is because it's already standing right in front of you in the station.  Thanks a lot!  Will your desired train be arriving in the next twenty minutes?  Beats me!  Just stick around and wait a while.

Railway managers are skilled masters at redefining our concept of time.  The departure board boldly announces your train will arrive in one minute (an optimistic assumption, if ever I saw one).  That digit "1" stubbornly remains in place on the board for at least seven minutes - I know, I've timed it with my ordinary, quartz-operated wristwatch.  I am led to the conclusion that I must be stuck in a time warp in another dimension. 

Still, I wouldn't change places with London commuters at this particular point in time, what with the Olympics and all that.  I've read that Transport for London (what was wrong with the old name, London Transport?) is handing out pearls of wisdom for commuters stuck in a Tube station in the bowels of the city: if your train is late/delayed a good alternative is to walk.  Oh, how droll!  Let's all traipse home across the city to the counties.  I wonder how Boris will be getting around during the Games?

You can't judge a book by its cover. Oh, yes you can!

Many people who commute while away the interminable journey to and from work by reading.  Whether it's the daily newspaper or a paperback, most travellers have their noses stuck in a book.  Those not so literate, prefer the loud noises (I refuse to use the word 'music') emanating from their MP3s or perhaps a game of Solitaire or Pacman on their smartphones.  But this is material for another post.  I shall restrict myself today to readers.

I've noticed a growing number of book readers have started to cover their reading material either with a sheet of plain paper or one of these fancy fabric book covers, complete with ribbon bookmark.  Ostensibly, these serve to protect books as they get shoved into briefcases or pushed next to the lunchtime sandwiches in a rucksack.  But there is another reason why people cover their books: no one else can see the title of the book you are reading.  The first time I saw a covered book on the train, I assumed its owner was simply a bibliophile who didn't want to damage his book in transit.  After a few more sightings, however, I figured that readers didn't want others to know what they were reading.  The books covered looked like library books - grubby and dog-eared.  But why?  Were they ashamed of their reading matter?  Was it something smutty?  Radical?  Puerile?  A bodice-ripper?  

If you're anything like me, you can't help judging someone by the kinds of books he chooses.  You visit someone at their home or office and are shown into a room with a bookcase.  What is the first thing you do?  You walk over to examine the spines and draw immediate conclusions about their owner.  When you see that smart business lady/commuter engrossed in her Harry Potter paperback, then you very quickly revise your first impressions downwards.  She does well to cover her book.

I also read while travelling.  The frequent delays and disruptions on public transport these days mean I get through more reading while on the go than when at home!  Much to my surprise, I found myself covering my books as well.  I wasn't reading anything that I could be ashamed of - it was most likely something arcane and in English, and a bit of a challenge for my fellow German co-travellers (a bit of a challenge for me, too, now that I think of it).  I thought about why I had done this and thought perhaps I had been unfair and a tad hypocritical about the book-coverers I mentioned earlier.  I came to the conclusion that I cover my books in public because, quite frankly, it's none of their business to know what I'm reading.   With friends and acquaintances one can be quite open about literary preferences, but not with strangers on the station platform.  Maybe book choices fall into the same category as religion, politics and salaries; they are taboo subjects to be avoided.

It's a boy! It's a girl!

A friend of mine recently gave birth to her second a child, a daughter.  I wanted to send her a greeting card and a small present for the little girl.  The department store was packed with rows of cards that celebrate every conceivable life event and those for new arrivals took up a whole stand.  You could find a style to suit every taste: elegant, jokey cartoony, kitsch, sweet, retro.  I was spoilt for choice but still couldn't find one that said just what I wanted to say.  I was looking for a card that wasn't obviously 'girlish.'  In other words, one that wasn't awash with pink colours, pretty flowers or suchlike.  I wanted something more neutral, that wasn't redolent of gender stereotypes.  Could I find anything?  No!  I searched for ages and messed up the neat rows good and proper.  (I could hear an irate shop assistant huffing and puffing behind me as I undid all her organisation.  Buy, hey, I'm the customer and it's her job to tidy up shelves, right?)

In the end I had to compromise for a sort of pinkish composition with fluffy bunny rabbits but was disappointed with my choice.  Why are we forced to choose between the two extremes?  From day one, the boy/girl dichotomy is reinforced relentlessly, with no overlap or grey area in between.  It starts in the maternity ward when the nurse wraps the tiny ID bracelet around the infant's wrist: girls get a pink band and boys blue.  

Would it be so bad if we could find a greeting card in pale green, or lemon, or peach?  Why do toys have to be restricted to Bob the Builder or Barbie?  If parents buy articles for their unborn children in colours that are not blue or pink, they have to find a ready answer to the question: Don't you know the sex of your child?  And what can you answer today with the existence of ultrasound?

I'm not sure how most parents would react to gender-neutral gifts.  I suspect most would simply feel pleasure at receiving a gift, rather than peeved because of the colour/style.  This may also be helpful if we genuinely want to encourage our daughters to consider "typically male" jobs in engineering or science.  If a little girl always gets a Barbie doll and makeup at Christmas, then we have no right to complain when she shows no interest in technology and science.  If boys received toy kitchen sets as children then perhaps they might not be so averse to preparing lunch and ironing a few shirts now and again - even if there is a female relative/friend in the household.  I know that what I'm proposing here is pretty radical (to some ears); the macho types, who wish to perpetuate their kind, could accuse me of raising pansies and destroying the whole fabric of society as we know it.

As a footnote, the gift that I bought to welcome little Anna was a colourful picture book, complete with scrunchy, fabric pages that make a noise as you turn them.  I hope she gets the habit.

Brainwashed and ready to spend money

Many underground stations in Munich have screens on the walls above the train lines.  These show headline news, weather bulletins, fact of the day, Trivial Pursuit-type questions and other meaningful pieces of information you really need to know when away from home.  But everything comes at a price: if you want to learn whether it's raining or not above ground, you have to subject yourself to the ubiquitous adverts that also accompany the bulletins.  

It's highly interesting to observe commuters on the platforms while they are watching the screens.  (Sociologists could do a field study and gain valuable insights into urban, subterranean, behavioural practices of modern man/woman.)  Quite simply, passengers are mesmerised.  They congregate in pools in front of the screens (there are two or three along the platform) and simply stare in rapt silence at the moving pictures, irrelevant whether it's financial news or ads for an Indian takeaway.  Of course, the projection is silent; there isn't even music.  So there isn't any need for passengers/viewers to be quiet - it's not like they're watching Harry Potter at the pictures and have to be 'shhhh'ed.'  People are so transfixed by what they see that, in the interest of public safety, when a train is approaching, the screen turns black and a warning sign fills the void: "Attention!  Train arriving."  Otherwise it would be a big shock if a thundering underground train suddenly blocked off your view, and you'd feel a bit peeved, too, if you missed the answer to the previous Quiz of the Day question.  

Stations with projectors are so quiet: no one shouts on their iPhones, nor do people gossip loudly.  They are all too wrapped up in the show on the wall.  And here's the cherry on the cake for the advertisers - they have a willing and captive audience.  The travellers on the platform are stuck there until the train arrives (and if it's late, even better), they can't go anywhere and in order to relieve the monotony, they stare vapidly ahead of them.

For the transport company, it's a win-win situation:

1. Passengers are kept docile - they don't get all stroppy when their train is late.  They simply forget to look at the announcement board and don't notice how much time has passed.
2. Passengers are kept quiet - they don't wander up and down the platform, talking loudly and bumping into each other.  They wait silently, huddled together like a flock of sheep in a downpour.
3. Said transport company can rake in big bucks in advertising fees.  After all, we all know how crowded public transport is with potential customers.

Make no mistake, I do not condemn these passengers.  I am one of the crowd on the platform and many times have found myself similarly immobilised while waiting for a train.  The really savvy passengers make a beeline for the few empty seats that are situated right in front of the screens; they don't have to stand while viewing and its' a bit like being at the cinema.  I find it difficult to explain: just what is it about moving pictures that makes us immune to our surroundings and we forget time and place?

Time was when a train station was a place that enabled you travel from A to B.  Nowadays it's just one more marketing opportunity for companies to exploit.

Commuter chaos

The underground train arrives in the station and there is a mad scrum to get to the doors first.  Of course, travellers have to wait for passengers already on the train to exit first before they can get on, but if they are first in line at the door, then they stand a pretty good chance of getting one of the few vacant seats inside.  If it isn't your lucky day, then you have to complete your journey, in an upright position, squeezed between pushchairs, rucksacks and someone who's just consumed a particularly strong curry,

The train slows down and, in what resembles a game of reverse Russian roulette, you hope against all hope that one of the doors comes to a halt right where you are standing on the platform.  It's too crowded to go running after a door; you just have to hope Lady Luck is smiling on you today.  Eventually the train stops and all the passengers gravitate towards their nearest door.  But the doors in front of you don't open.  And even more peculiar, the area inside is devoid of crowds.  Why??? The other passengers up and down the platform disappear inside the train.  The platform clears.  The driver warns people over the loudspeaker to stand clear of the train. It's about to leave but you and a handful of fellow passengers still haven't boarded.  You desperately yank on the handle - repeatedly.  Nothing happens - repeatedly.  Why won't the damn door open?  A lucky traveller on the inside of the train gestures towards the glass separating you.  Can't the fool see that you're trying to open the door; why doesn't he help and open the door from the inside?  And then you see them: fluorescent yellow notices plastered all over the doors, at eye level so you can't miss them, and printed in big, red letters are the words "Out of Order."  And in case you are illiterate or don't speak the lingo, there is also a pictograph - it depicts a man trying to open a locked train door.  

Despite valiant attempts by rail workers, people still fail to notice these bright yellow signs.  There are so many pasted on the glass that they block out the light, yet people somehow don't notice them.  Do commuters walk around in such a hypnotised state that they literally do not notice what is staring them in the face?  Maybe they are totally brainwashed by mind-numbing, daily routine that they fail to register anything out of the ordinary that does not fit into their comforting, familiar practices.


The incidents are becoming more frequent (both broken doors and inattentive travellers) and I am at a loss to explain the phenomenon.

Lightness and Heaviness à la Kundera

Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being begins with an examination of the concept of eternal return.  Taking his example of the French Revolution, this event seems lightweight and devoid of its terror and bloodshed by virtue of the fact that it occurred only once and did not infinitely repeat itself.  If, however, the French had to endure another Robespierre every year then this would indeed be an onerous and frightening weight.  Over time, the Revolution has become an object for historical study, and the intervening years mean the abhorrent has lost its immediacy and terror.  Everything surrounding the Revolution is now touched by an “aura of nostalgia.”  (On the other hand, while we might not have an annual French Revolution happening, we do have equally bloody revolutions around the world occurring in our own time.  Perhaps these perpetual revolutions can be used to illustrate the maxim ‘history repeats itself’; it just depends how far and wide you want to stretch the term ‘history.’)

If we subscribe to the idea of eternal return then this colours our perspective of the past.  If an event is only going to occur once then we become nostalgic about such an event that, once gone, will never return.  And in doing so, we bring no judgement to bear on that event – we cannot condemn.

It is this idea of believing that we cannot “come to a verdict” about the past that I find challenging, but also disturbing.  We were not present during the historical era under examination and so do not have access to all the evidence (but then again, living through a historical event doesn’t qualify you as an expert either).  But this temporal distance should not make us shy of interrogating, analyzing and, if necessary, condemning.

The concept of eternal return does indeed affect our perspective of our existence in this world.  And it is all a matter of perspective.  The picture at the top of this post illustrates this better than I can explain.  The granite ball is unbearably heavy; no normal human can lift it unaided.  Water is light and trickles through our fingers.  Yet this lump of rock rolls around gracefully as if suspended in a vacuum and the water here does what no human can do.

It's still recycling

 

In some places, recycling is carried out with almost religious fervour.  Then there are other places where the concept of reusing something old is scoffed at with disdain.  

But recycling doesn't have to be organised by local councils with multi-coloured wheelie bins and the streets littered (excuse the pun) with rows of bottle banks.  Nor do local authorities need to provide facilities for flea markets where like-minded aficionados of the old and quaint can congregate.  Nothing needs to be organised - all you need to do is keep an eye on the rubbish bins in your neighbourhood and wait for your neighbours to have a clear out.  Then when all is quiet (preferably during the midday siesta or after bedtime), just saunter past the bins and help yourself to whatever takes your fancy, like the painting in the above photo, for example.

Many serviceable items have been left at this dumping place, many of them much too big to fit inside the bin, i.e. furniture.  By the next morning, the site is clear again but it isn't the council that comes to collect: they never get there quick enough.

Sometimes local authorities just don't have the resources/imagination/willpower to implement such schemes.  In these cases, it's just as well that citizens show some initiative of their own.

(Re)discovering the Beatles

The Beatles and I were born in the same decade.  I grew up hearing their songs on the radio non stop, both while the group was active and much later after they disbanded.  But I was impervious to their appeal; I hated them!  I acknowledged that they were talented, masters of the pop universe (I never asserted that they were rubbish) but I just didn't like their style, for some indefinable reason.

Then they went their separate ways and left me in peace.  Of course, the radio continued to play their hits but more and more infrequently.  We were moving into the 70s and 80s and other dogs were having their day.  In the meantime, poor John was assassinated and George passed away.  Ringo became a grandad and Paul championed worthy causes.


Fast forward to 2011.  I am charged with teaching English to a group of 6th and 8th graders.  Not an easy assignment, given that they have poor discipline, a low attention span and detest grammar.  I too get fed up with the stale coursebook and arid worksheets.  The entertainment value of crossword puzzles and games is limited to five minutes.  To break the monotony I decided to introduce songs into the lesson, using the lyrics to expand vocabulary or reinforce grammar.  The first song I found was Yellow Submarine.  No way! I thought, I'm not doing a Beatles song.  But I was short of time and didn't have the chance to find and prepare another song.

To my utter amazement, the students loved the song.  Once we had completed all the exercises, they wanted to hear the song again and again.  I replayed the CD and they all sang along with their completed lyrics.  Even more amazing, I found myself singing along too!  The passage of time had softened my indifference and disdain and I realised what lovely little stories these songs told, with beautiful melodies.  I don't know what is to blame for my turncoat tactics; whether it is the sentimentality that accompanies approaching senility or a nostalgic yearning for past decades I cannot say.

Today we sang Help! and Beatles songs have a firm place on the timetable.  But it just goes to show how a bunch of 11-year-olds can introduce you to songs from the Swinging Sixties.

Walking down the aisle

Imagine the scene.  It's midday in a busy discount supermarket and I'm wandering the aisles looking for inspiration for the evening meal.  Easily distracted as I am, I come across a prominently displayed box of shower gel and stop to look.  Okay, it's not going to help me decide what to buy for dinner, but it was a brief respite from the intense intellectual activity.  The price seems really good; 1 litre priced at a 250ml bottle.  Not bad.  I forget the groceries and pull over to the side to take a better look.  There must be a catch somewhere, the product was ridiculously cheap.  

On the opposite side of the display I observe another housewife with her trolley eying up the bottles.  Her face displays the same thought processes that are going through my mind: shall I buy a bottle, or not?  Unable to decide, she picks up a random bottle from the box and flips the top in order to smell the contents.  Sniff, sniff and she wrinkles her nose.  She then offers the bottle for me to smell.  I lean forward and inhale.  

Yuck!  

"It smells just like washing up liquid," I opine.

"You're right."  The other lady smiles, returns the bottle to the box with its friends and continues pushing her trolley along the aisles.  I, too, follow my own path.

My short interlude provided no inspiration for the 'dinner dilemma' but it did give me an insight into the philosophy behind effective retailing.

Where's the party?

“Dear Neighbours,

It’s my birthday on Saturday and I’m throwing a party.  This is just to let you know that things might get a big loud late at night and I apologise right now for any inconvenience.

Best wishes,

Jacqueline”

The above message was scrawled on a scrap of paper and sellotaped onto the inside of my apartment building’s front door.  It happens quite often.  Some notices are professional – they are run off on a computer with fancy fonts and printed nice and large so you can’t miss the message.  Others, like Jacqueline’s, are scribbled by hand with whatever writing instrument comes to hand.  In Jackie’s case, a dried up felt tip pen.  She obviously doesn’t do much in the way of writing at home.

It would be nice if Jacqueline’s party was of the kind where you have tea and cake, play musical chairs and thank the hostess as you leave late afternoon.  But no, this was the other kind of party, the kind your mother wouldn’t want you to go to.

The sticking point here is not the fact that Jacqueline has given me advance warning that I’m not going to get any sleep on Saturday night, but the fact that, it’s somehow acceptable to be unsociable, just so long as you tell everyone about it beforehand.  It’s sort of like saying: ‘Look, I’m about to have a tantrum, and I’m really sorry about it, but you can’t accuse me, because I told you what was coming.  So tough luck.’  Jacqueline knows that she can exploit her neighbours’ implicit approval.  She can behave badly with impunity.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no killjoy.  Have a party if you want, get drunk, burst your ear drums, and race down the staircase clinking your empty beer bottles.  Just don’t insult my intelligence by saying you want to celebrate your impending senility and you’re really cut up about my sleepless night.

Getting around in one piece

Policemen, firemen, and prison officers travelling around Berlin are allowed to use public transport for free, not just while performing their official duties but also when commuting to and from work.  The only stipulation is that they have to be wearing their uniforms and not civvies.

A good move on the part of the city authorities - this is one section of society that deserves as much help and support as they can get.  (Some may disagree with me here, but that's another story).  The philosophy behind the idea is that the presence of uniformed law enforcers on Berlin's trams and trains would act as a deterrent to would-be vandals and yobbos.  

A good idea in theory, but there's a problem.  The employees in question don't want to travel in uniform.  They prefer to pay 91 Euros (3 zones) for a monthly travel ticket and use public transport incognito.  Why would they voluntarily pay so much when they could travel for free?  

Policemen, firemen, and prison officers say they don't like to use public transport while in uniform because they are molested by other travellers.  Makes you think.

Karl Marx Allee - socialist lifestyle in Berlin

Originally named Stalinallee, this boulevard is a two-kilometre long living museum dedicated to the ideals of socialist living.  The buildings went up in the early 1950s, with the aim of providing spacious housing for the proletariat, and emulating the socialist classicism of Soviet architecture.  This region of Friedrichshain suffered heavy wartime damage and in the post-war era, new housing was needed.  Since the area fell under Soviet jurisdiction, it was only natural that the housing constructed reflected Soviet tastes.

The boulevard has its own homepage which gives inside views of apartments for sale or rent, in addition to business premises available.  Prices are not exactly ‘bargain basement’ but then I suppose the developers are placing emphasis on the historical element. 

East German buildings are not known for their technical sophistication or high quality and I can well imagine these apartments would have had their fair share of problems.  Labourers had to contend with a strict schedule and manage without modern construction technologies: they literally used their bare hands to erect each floor. 

Deemed to be of significant architectural merit, the entire complex is now listed and under state protection.  As such, no structural changes can be made, for example, installing double glazing to replace badly fitting windows.  Potential occupants might want to bear this in mind before they buy a piece of history.

Frankfurter Tor

If you wanted to take a look inside one of the buildings you could always pretend to be a potential buyer and approach an estate agent.  A quicker alternative would be to visit the Humana second-hand shop at Frankfurter Tor.  The building in which the shop is housed forms part of the Karl Marx Allee complex and the visitor is free to wander around inside.  As a charity shop, they have obviously left the interior as they found it – winding stone staircase, draughty metal-framed windows, mosaic-marbled floors.  By the way, the Humana shop is itself another museum of GDR fashion trends.  Lots of 1960s polyester skirts, loud ties, and absolutely hundreds of gents’ long leather coats, of the kind once favoured by the secret police.

Domed tower at Frankfurter Tor

Finishing this short tour of socialist architecture, I found the following detail ironic.  At Frankfurter Tor, there are two corner buildings facing each other from opposite sides of the square.  Each building is topped by a grand, domed tower which the architect (Henselmann) intended to resemble the domes of the French and German cathedrals (c.1705) in Gendarmenmarkt.  How appropriate that the German Democratic Republic wanted its grandest square to resemble the splendour and grandeur of eighteenth-century Calvinist churches in Friedrichstadt.