Politics and Circuses

You may not notice it from the picture above. But take a closer look. What do you see?

At first glance you will see a carnival: swings, slides, and rides. But look in the background. You can barely see a squat building with shiny yellowy-gold glass. That is the Place de Republic, the old Politburo of the GDR (East Germany). It was the home to Honicker, the leader of communist Germany since the 1960's. From here you can walk one kilometer to the Berlin wall. It was the last outpost of the eatern block.

Today it sits on what is now known as Museum Island, a section of land in the middle of the Spree river that is home to the great museums of Berlin. But as you walk past it now, most of the glass is gone, leaving a hulking concrete box amid classically styled architecture. There are no signs indicating its presnece. You are unable to walk in front of it because the carnival blocks any decent vantage point. Instead of seeing the old home of communism you can buy a sausage and take a ride on the swings. But this builing was the regime's pride: it was built in a mere 1000 days. Now it is slated for demolition because it is a home to asbestos and mould. Without any sign you would think it is an old parking garage.

It sits there slowly decaying -- almost a tortourous and humiliating end to the bastion of old, lost ideas.

The carnival is a celebration of freedom and also an ironic insult.

Berlin

After driving the autobahn from Holland, I've arrived in Berlin with an average speed of 170 km per hour in a micro-sized car. The hardest part was keeping my hands from sweating on the steering wheel when BMWs pass you travelling 230 km per hour!

Berlin is the most un-european city that I have visited -- namely because it is very new with massive construction projects sprouting cranes up into the sky. When we arrived at night, the streets were alight with gleaming glass towers and indoor plazas of twisting metal. It is much like a North American city with new towers outnumbering the old.

But like other cities in Europe it has a history. An infamous history. Since the wall fell, they are quickly building in the gaps left from years of division. It seems Berlin is eagre to erase the past with the new -- Hitler's wartime bunker has been buried and left unmmarked, the old East German parliament is being demolished. Old communist blocks are disappearing. Faced with a shaded past and an unknown future, Berlin faces a vacuum on both sides of the timeline. They are trying to forge a new identity -- yet the fall of the wall is so recent there is little sense of what that might be. So they build and build feverishly, like an obsessive compulsive way of doing something, anything as long as it is new.

This can be seen on a quick drive through town: there is now real center to Berlin. It is a broad city with parks and neighbourhoods and districts, but is has no Trafalgar Square, no Times Square.

But before a city can have a centre or a heart it must have a body. It just takes a while to reattach the limbs after wars, walls have torn it apart.

The Treaty of Utrecht

I have arrived in Utrecht, Holland to visit my long lost friend Jeppe Schilder who I met in Thailand three years ago. The last time we saw each other was at the Kathmandu airport that was under heavy guard against the Maoist insurgency.

Holland is my style. Especially Utrecht. It has everything that Amsterdam offers yet there is a small town feeling here. The sound of bikes rattling over the brick-paved roads has replaced the roar of traffic and commuting madness. I walk along the tree lined canals at my own pace, stopping in at used book shops and antique shops. The 13th century church tower plays a small tune every half hour, scattering the pidgeons over the buildings. When I am hungry, I buy a fresh baked roll with salami and Dutch cheese.

Although bikes and windmils are a cliche in Holland, they are examples of what I like about this country: it is practical, elegant and efficient. Bikes have their own lanes, new and old homes alike still carry on a tradition of simple brick, big windows, and a efficient use of space. Unlike other cities around the world, even homes built in the 17th century still look contemporary.

Ah, I could walk around all day.

Fighter Jets in London

The British media recently reported a story that found that London commuters have higher stress levels than a fighter jet pilots. You may laugh at the thought: a man flying a $100 million aircraft at three times the speed of sound carrying laser guided bombs through enemy airspace is more at ease than a man standing on a train with a copy of the Guardian rolled under his arm.

Don't laugh. It's true.

Commuting in London is serious business. The daytime population of downtown almost doubles from 7 to 13 million as people drain into work from the outskirts. With narrow roads and no thoroughfares, people depend on trains, busses, and taxis to get to work. Like individual pieces of mail in a post office, everyone urgently wants to file themselves at their desks, away from the multitudes of faces. It's madness. Everyone is vying for a seat, a small piece of elbow room. Getting onto the train means you must contend with everyone's need to get somewhere. No one smiles. If you talk to a stranger, they turn as if you are about to unleash the Ebola virus upon them. Or you may have bad breath. But the trains during rush hour have their own scent: a mixture of aftershave, shampoo, and misery.

Walking to work during rush hour gives you a new appreciation for the power of the human brain. For every step you take, your mind must calculate the speed and trajectory of 50 people at time. Some are crossing diagonally, others are heading your way. Some are coming from behind. You must know who is paying attention -- and avoid them at all costs. A bewildered shopper leaving Marks and Spenser on Oxford Street steps onto the pavement only to be washed away by the torrent of commuters. If someone dares to stop mid stride they create havoc; everyone must walk around them like a current moves around a rock. Tourists plod with ease -- only to be cast aside by an arsenal of shoulders and swear words. If you want to cross the street you must think ten steps ahead and calculate when a brief opening might appear. When you see it, you quickly change paths and hope you don't swipe someone with your satchel. But inevitably someone will step in your way -- your calculation was wrong. You must regroup, re-figure and change course. Kill or be killed.

At least fighter pilots have a computer and open space to work with. Mach 3? That's easy.