Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz

The car I learned to drive in was more of a ship than a car. I steered a ship on the road, not some plastic sardine box. The old white Merc 190 from the late 80s was my great-uncle's car, which my father had bought off him somewhere when we were living in Geneva. The car traveled with us to Mexico, and then was placed in a container and shipped back to South Africa, full of cases of red wine if I remember correctly.

The problem with this is that the Mercedes is a left-hand drive, and South Africa has right-hand drive cars. So any time the driver would have to turn right, seeing the oncoming traffic was made harder than necessary. Before the white Mercedes there was the blue station wagon, also a Mercedes, and much more of a ship to steer than the 190. It was a solid steel block, relentless in its stability. Someone clipped the station wagon while my sister was waiting at a robot and she barely felt it (probably an exaggeration, but I quite like the idea of her not noticing she is in a car accident).

Beyond these two cars there was another green Merc somewhere in the dark recesses of my childhood memories. My father still drives a silver Merc station wagon, and the white ship was my ride in Cape Town during last year's holidays. Somehow, we have remained fairly loyal to the brand.

Sticking with the horse. 

In Stuttgart, we had the option of going to the Mercedes Benz Museum or to the Porsche one. Since Mercedes has an older history, we headed there on Wednesday morning. The percentage of Mercedes cars increases exponentially the closer one gets to the imposing building that hosts the museum. The idea is to start at the top and then spiral one's way down automobile and world history whilst also seeing the various cars from different eras. Nina and I are both not car obsessed and I think one could spend a lot longer in the museum than we did. It is beautifully done, but after having spent two hours on the top three floors alone we speedwalked through the remaining six levels. In any case, the classic cars seemed more appealing due to their Great-Gatsby looks than the ones that appear from the 1970s onwards.

First patent. 

In the end we got slightly lost on the sales floor (where no one tried to sell us a car, wonder why) before eventually having to go up two floors again to escape the gigantic museum. Next time I might stick to art again.

Wait on the brink

With many travels coming up in the next few months I realised I had never spoken about the get-away to Stuttgart at the end of March.

We never wanted to go to Stuttgart. My friend Nina came over one night and we spoke about Germanwings' bling booking option. We were both feeling drowned by this place and in need of different air, so on the spur of the moment we booked a flight to an exotic place. Or so we thought. For an agonising 45 seconds we were giddy with excitement at ending up in Budapest, Manchester, Geneva or Paris. We spoke about acquaintances in those cities that we could stay with, and what adventures we would have. Then the site showed us our destination: Stuttgart. We wouldn't even be leaving the country. Getting to the airport in Hamburg from here would take longer than the actual flight. Disappointment washed over us, and the need to say that we'd make the best of it. Hell, we'd both not been there before. And we'd get away, at least.

So on a Monday morning we boarded a plane to Stuttgart, where we spent the first two days at Andrea's place. Andrea is in his early forties, has an enormous bush of black ringlets streaked with grey that frame his face and speaks a strange German that is tinged with both his native Italian and the local Swabian dialect. He has lived in Stuttgart for 17 years and works at some IT company. The first night he showed us around a bit and made a great supper consisting of pasta with broccoli, raisins, pine nuts, generous helpings of olive oil and even more generous helpings of Parmesan. The raisins complemented the dish fantastically, as did the wine he generously offered us (his entire kitchen is stocked with wine since his friends keep bringing him some and he does not drink).

Tuesday was spent exploring the city. Since I am slightly OCD about seeing things in new places whilst not spending any money, I had trip-advisored myself though the Internet and written down what might be interesting to see. Our Tuesday started off with walking up the inclining hill to the Corbusier house in the Weissenhof neighbourhood. but the trip was rather pointless since the Curbusier museum was closed and we both aren't so interested in his five points of architecture to truly appreciate the areas designated style.

Corbusier House. 

So we went back down the hill and into the city library, which is often featured online for its distinctive design. It was wonderful simply being in a library with a large collection, so we investigated the different sections and then went to the roof terrace. I was expecting benches and maybe a roof garden, but it was just concrete and steel-mesh flooring, with a view of half a dozen cranes.

Books books books. 

Our walk continued through the business district towards the central station and then to the Hans im Glück fountain, which is surrounded by little restaurants. In the hopes of finding something similar to Hamburg's Sternschanze or Joburg's Braamfontein we went to the Bohnenviertel (Bean District), but were sadly disappointed in finding only a handful of interesting stores and quaint restaurants in the entire area. Our quest to find the beating heart of this city led us onwards to the Feuerseeplatz with its lake and then we took the S-Bahn out of the city into the winelands. Thinking we'd go on a drinking tour of different vineyards we started climbing the Rotenberg. Again, we were mistaken: none of the wineries were open yet because spring hadn't really started and there was not a grape in sight, never mind some wine. We soldiered on in what felt like sweltering heat, conquering the mountain in wingtips. At some point we took a short-cut up an endless row of tiny stairs between the vines, and collapsed at the top. The time it took to recover from the vertical incline would've probably amounted to the same time it would have taken had we snaked our way up the hill like normal people.

Feuerseeplatz

"No time, I have to live!"

Upon reaching the top we sat down in front of the memorial site of some dead Wüttembergian queen and enjoyed the view. No ocean in sight, just a sea of hills. Late afternoon lead us down the mountain again where we bought a cold beer and relaxed next to the river. When it started raining we took the train back to the city and indulged in a Swabian meal of Spätzle with cheese or Geschnetzeltes (strips of meat in a creamy mushroom sauce). Spätzle is a dish I associate with various parts of my family: when I was younger we'd sometimes visit distant relatives in Wiesenbach (a tiny town in Baden-Württemberg) where they'd often make Spätzle with Geschnetzeltes. My German grandmother also fed us Spätzle with Rouladen the few times we visited her and my grandfather in Paarl. Lastly, my mom would make double the amount of Spätzle and bake one dish with cheese in the oven whilst freezing the other one for the times that she could not be there. Strange how a noodle is more than a noodle at times.

Love never ends.

View from the top. 

Beer time. 

Dinner: Spätzle with Geschnetzeltes. 

Tuesday left us exhaused, so we headed home.
I'm also exhaused, so I'll continue the tall tales of adventure time in Stuttgart tomorrow :)

Lonely Souls

This past weekend I went to Bremen, again with the international students. It was miserable, gray and the kind of cold that infiltrates your bones and refuses to leave for the next months. Even our arrival at the central station was marked by how unspectacular everything there was: simply another big building with groups of anti-establishment homeless young adults and other homeless skulking about, reeking of beer and piss. The city tour was immensely boring as the lady who showed us around did not seem to notice that she was talking to students and not a group of geriatrics. Luckily that evening some of us went out and met up with my friend Pina, with whom we ended up at a gay club, dancing to Backstreet Boys, Britney Spears, and other 90s hits.

As half the group is Catholic, we attended mass in the Bremer Cathedral, which must have been the first time in years that I sat through a sermon. More interesting that being preached to were the stained glass windows and the architecture of the cathedral. Afterwards, a Russian girl accompanied me to the Weserburg Museum of Modern Art, which divides its permanent collection and temporary exhibitions between 5 floors.

After exploring four floors and contemplating rooms filled with Rothko-ish colour paintings, children's drawings and cultural artifacts exhibited next to art works we opened the door to a black room in the fifth floor. Initially I thought it would be another strange video installation that I refused to suffer through, but Richard Mosse's The Enclave (2012) was miraculous.

Four large screens formed a rectangle in the middle of the dark room, with a screen hanging at a distance on two more sides (so 6 screens in total). We went into the rectangle and focused on the film shown on only one of them, the rest were blank, bathed in black. The film showed what looked like a refugee camp in between strangely pink hills, with African people moving out of the camera's way as it progressed through the makeshift village. As we followed the camera's path, the other screens went on and suddenly we were overwhelmed by this pink colour that did not seem to fit the suffering these people must have endured (and are still enduring).

Turns out the footage was filmed on 16mm infrared film, used during wartime to differentiate between plants and people as the chlorophyll in the plants shows up in red-pink tones. For this film alone it was worth going to Bremen.

Richard Mosse: The Impossible Image from Frieze on Vimeo.

If I don't have to

Arnold Böcklin, Die Toteninsel (The Isle of the Dead), 1883

During this month of November I have been gone more than I have been here. Throw in a darkness that clung to me like bubblegum to a shoe, well, then let us say it was the best of months and the worst of months, and it isn't even over yet. 

One of the first trips was to Berlin, accompanying the international students to the capital. That weekend the conductors of the Deutsche Bahn (the rail services) decided to strike. Luckily we took the arduous journey from Flensburg to Berlin by bus, but in the city transport was made more difficult as the S-Bahn was striking as well. Luckily we could get to most places by U-Bahn and managed to see the Festival of Lights, an old DDR Prison (Stasi-Museum near Lichterfelde), go on a walking tour of the city, visit some museums on the Museumsinsel, do a little shopping, go out to a club in an old furniture factory and spend the last hours enjoying beautiful sunshine at the Mauerpark. For 72hours, we really did cram it in. Nevertheless, I doubt the students realise how stressful it is to look after them. At times it felt like having 25 children who could legally get drunk. 

A good distraction from being mother/mean-bitch to 25 people who are just a few years younger was taking one of the other tutors to the museum island. I should perhaps be more of an art connoisseur, given that it is partially what I studied. But I find art to be an extremely subjective thing, dependent on mood and timing and how an individual reacts to a work. The Isle of the Dead is mesmerizing to me, although inexplicably so. In total Böcklin painted 5 versions, four of which survive to this day (one was burnt during WWII). I have seen the Berlin and the Leipzig versions, and both made me want to disappear into the work, rather than having to quietly tip-toe around it at a distance. 

The Festival of Lights was astounding on a different level. For one night many famous buildings have various images projected on them as citizens walk around and observe the city at night. That weekend Berlin really pulled out all the stops, as on our last day there we soaked up the sun in the Mauerpark as various artists played music all around us. We also had the best Vietnamese dish I have ever tasted (it was some kind of beefy broth, but not really having tasted Vietnamese before this was perfectly spiced). All that remained was a long ride in a crowded bus back to a tiny city that keeps playing hide and seek with the light. 

I'm so tired

The holidays seem like a distant memory. As soon as I landed back in Germany work started and this week the university began. With it comes and endless stream of  To-Do-lists and everyday processes that tire me about before they have even really begun.

So I reminisce about time spent with my family, about road trips and vacationing in Istanbul. Our day of arrival in Istanbul is a hazy recollection: my friend met my at the baggage claim as she had landed hours earlier and then we stumbled into the bright sunrise of the city. A very friendly cab driver sped us across the Bosphorus to Beyoglu where our hostel was. In broken English he explained how he had traveled to 62 cities and as we feared for our lives he swerved across empty lanes while simultaneously scrolling though old photographs on his smartphone of him in Vegas.

When we got to the Neverland Hostel we weren't allowed to check-in because it was only 6AM. So we slept on dingy couches in the foyer for a few hours until the other patrons came down for breakfast. After a shower we wandered the city and found our own breakfast. After finally checking in we found Taksim Square, ate some grapes in a park and wandered down the Istiklal avenue, Istanbul's shopping street. My aunt had given me an enormous goodie bag filled with padkos, so for dinner we snacked on biltong sticks, nuts and dried mango and then passed out.

Taksim Square

 

Pools

Crossing the bridge to the island. 

With the international students, I had the privilege of visiting the island of Sylt. Initially I wasn't sure where it is located or why one should go, but after some Wikipedia research it seemed like an interesting place to visit, especially since the university would be covering my costs haha. It is shaped like an anchor lying on its side, and although the island stretches for 40km from north to south it is only 320m in width. Because of strong storm tides, they have an enormous erosion problem and after trying to salvage the island throughout the years with groynes and tetrapods they are now dredging the sand back to the beaches. It costs the government millions every year, but for some reason it must be worth it. 

We took three trains to get there and then another bus to our hostel/previous boarding school. The accommodation was wonderful. Everyone was extremely friendly, all our meals were catered for and the rooms were nice as well. On the afternoon of our arrival we went on a guided tour of the Wadden Sea (Wattwanderung) where two young students explained to us the different creatures that live in the muddy sand and how the ebb and flow works there. One also said that the weather changes extremely quickly on the island, but I was not listening too exactly to his words. 

Wattwanderung

The Wadden Sea on both sides

Hah, he was right. During the night an enormous thunderstorm harassed the island and I was panicking a bit because our group was supposed to be touring around on bicycles the next day. At breakfast it was still gloomy and rainy, but by the time everyone had showered and gotten ready the skies had cleared and it was a lovely day. Later on we returned to the hostel and a thick thick mist covered the buildings as we ate our supper. I wanted to walk the 100m to the beach to see the mist there, and only 2 students joined me because the others said it was too cold. However, as the 3 of us climbed over the dune there was no sign of the mist. We settled into the beach chairs and watched a beautiful sunset instead. 

The main beach at Westerland

There are 11 000 of these in season spread on the beaches.

Bloom

My grandmother has the green thumb in the family. She pulls out something in one spot and sticks it in a different one and it grows, whereas when I try to have plants they wilt and die. The only success I have is with the ones I can eat. Here I now have some basil, Moroccan mint and coriander growing steadily. And oregano, lemon balm and parsley seeds are sprouting into tiny sprigs of green on our window sill. 

With flowers I have had no such luck. Nevertheless, one of my wishes was to see the tulip fields in the Netherlands so when planning our trip to Amsterdam it was the opportune moment to insist on a day at Keukenhof. The Keukenhof gardens lie about an hour by bus outside of the city. Because it was a mild winter most flowers had bloomed already and the fields were not so much fields as individual stretches of colour. 

The gardens themselves are enormous with hundreds of different types of tulips and other bulbs. There was also a greenhouse with various orchids. Although it was lovely to walk around so many colours and petals in all shapes and sizes, Keukenhof felt too touristy for my liking. It seems that everyone only goes to be photographed in front of as many different tulips as possible, whereas I had this romanticized notion of strolling through fields of flowers and being overcome by their beauty and smell. Hah. Next time (next year? Try again maybe?) I'd prefer borrowing a bike somewhere and cycling through the fields, and ultimately skipping Keukenhof completely. 

Daffodils in cheese wheels. The Dutch!

Far away fields. 

A singular blossom of difference.

Some petals were the size of my hand.