Its a zoo out there

Yep, friendly friends, the rumors are true: 1) you are stuck with Me once again, which is to say, A, and which is to say, with another very-long-post; and 2) we’ve now been out of Berlin for the unreasonably long time of more-than-a-week. It’s sad. Then, when we’re sad about it, we take an exhilarating Velib [the free bike system in Paris] ride on the Seine past the Eiffel Tower, and catch our breath again.

We’re currently pins-and-needles anxious about the election, as is the entire world, which happens tomorrow. We’re watching a series of live reports on French television broadcasting from all over in America. [D wants me to go to an all-night Live-Vote-Watching / American-Culture-Lecture / American-Film experience tomorrow to watch the election [note of interest: what films do the French watch during the biggest American election in order to "Better understand America?" 1. Little Miss Sunshine. 2. Crash [ick.] 3. A documentary about Bernard Henry-Levi going across America] ].

The world is deeply invested in this election.

Berlin was abuzz about the election the entire time we were there; and despite the recent Der Spiegel article demonstrating a severe decline in Germano-American relations, Berlin proved to be both excited and friendly for our company. Our journalist friends related a few stories.

They said that when Obama came to visit, they’ve never seen such an electrified city. They also said that the reported number of 100,000 fans turning up to hear his speech was probably half the real number, easily. Sounded pretty amazing.

I asked our friends to describe their perception of Merkel’s refusal to allow Obama to speak in front of the Brandenberg Tor [or Gate], a la Reagan’s “Tear down this wall!” speech [which, if you re-read it, is really a bit softer on Gorby and the Ruskies than I’d thought]. When Barack Obama came, they said, it was obvious that he wanted a political photo op; but the problem wasn’t so much Obama’s desires. Rather, what stood in the way of Obama and the Brandenberg Gate may have been a recent effort to minimize the previous [er... current] president’s visit. Apparently, when Bushie came round Berlin not so long ago in June to open the shiny new American Embassy, there were some kerfuffles about the Brandenburg Gate. Bush wanted two things, and was refused both:

He wanted a 200 foot security border and complete shut down of public radiating out of the Embassy, as the Americans had in their previous Embassy [known, during the Cold War as the “American Embassy in East Berlin”, not “to,” because that would have been a breach of Cold War language protocol, according to Mike, our Cold War Tour Guide]. Now, keep in mind, the new American Embassy is about 20 feet from the Brandenburg Gate; and important landmarks which fall within that locked-down perimeter include the Art School [where Albert Speer designed Germania for Hitler], and the Brandenberg Tor itself, which is basically connected to the Embassy. So, this is a ridiculous request.

Also, this security border would have severely limited access to photo opportunities at the Hotel Adlon, where one of our Jorno friends’ co-workers had to stake out for several hours to catch Barack Obama “working out.” Pretty thrilling assignment. [Also, if this security perimeter were in place, the paparazzi would not have captured that enduring photo of Michael Jackson dangling a baby out of the Hotel Adlon window].

The second thing Bush wanted was a good photo op in front of the Brandenburg Gate with a huge sprawling crowd. He didn’t get that, either. So, you know, it would look bad and awfully politically assuming if the Germans gave Barack that photo op instead of the current prez.

Now. I’m here to talk about two other nutty and fun events D and I enjoyed in Berlin. The Zoo, and the Ballhaus!


The Zoo

After a nice night of beer and pizza, D and I woke early on a beautiful crisp sunny day to indulge the true catalyst of our desire to visit Berlin: the adorable eisbär Knut! I'd had an obsession with the eisbär during my first year of grad school.

We went to the reasonably priced and beautifully managed Zoo, which was a couple blocks walking distance from our hotel in the west side of Berlin. The Zoo is among the oldest and largest in Europe, apparently, and claims that it has the most species represented of all Zoos in Europe [including the bizarre mega-rats from Louisiana, USA, the nutria. Creepy rodents! and Penguins of the "Brillenpinguin" variety].


The zoo was quite popular on the day we visited, which was the sunniest / least rainy of our time in Berlin. Lots of kids, lots of families; and several individuals of various degrees of Knut-obsession, de-marked by over-large sweatshirts, backpacks, trucker hats, fannypacks, umbrellas, and dangling stuffed animals in form of the eisbär-baby Knut.

We wandered through the zoo, enjoying the rustic layout and naturalistic pens for the animals, and the beautiful day, when we found Knut’s pen.


Knut is still the major attraction in the Berlin zoo, despite having received a reputation for being surly. When we found him, he was napping peacefully in the sun, and a large crowd had gathered, just watching him sleep.

He did eventually wake up, and he spent some time pacing back and forth, eyeballing all of us who watched him.


I liked to think he was watching out for the crazy stalkers with their backpacks and hats, but D thinks maybe he was looking at me. You see, Knut is in a rather sad state right now, mostly because he’s alone. Recently, his hand-rearing zookeeper Papa Thomas Döerflein died suddenly of a heart attack, and there were flowers at Knut’s pen; and Knut definitely looked lonely [we may be projecting and personifying, of course].


D thinks Knut saw me and thought I might have been Papa Thomas- we share a beard, longish brown hair, a solitary style, and I’ve been known to play with bear cubs. I’m not sure about that theory, because bears smell more than they see, but you never know. Knut definitely paced in my direction quite a bit!

Eventually he cheered right up and played with a dumbbell, which he promptly threw in the moat and lost. After the dumbbell, he played catch with a football until he tore it to shreds.



And he was adorable every minute of the day. [slightly less adorable than in this video, I’ll admit:]

Later, when we told our friends we went to the zoo, inevitably each asked "How is Knut?" People in Berlin really care about this bear. And he deserves it. He's cute.

During the period when Knut was napping, we were slightly bored, so we went to see the other bears next door, a couple of black bears napping in the sun. Now, these black bears are likewise immediately nextdoor to the pen of a pack of four white arctic wolves. These wolves seemed to get a bit adventurous earlier in the day, and had made their way, through secret one-way access holes the zoo built for them into the black bear pen. So we go over to see the sleeping bears, when all of a sudden, all of these mischievous wolves appear! Very funny to see.

At one point, one of the wolves approached the bear and nudged him. The bear woke up with a start, and swatted the surprised wolf away. It was very funny to see- an annoyed bear clumsily growling at a pestering wolf.





The other major site we found at the zoo is actually outside the zoo: crossing a bridge over the Spree canals to the section of the zoo with the kangaroos, we saw a small memorial marking the place where Rosa Luxemburg was assassinated and dumped into the river. D tells me this was one of the prominent early political murders before the Nazis took power.

We finally left the zoo, which we very much enjoyed, and headed back toward central Berlin to meet our friends for a night out.

The Ballhaus

We met our friends at their journo homebase, right next to the Brandenberg gate. Here’s the view from their “cafe.” Immediately off camera to the left of the gate is the US embassy.


The night before, at dinner, D’s friend Naomi had promised us and Svanur that there would be “dancing.” Now, we assumed [we assumed, safely] that our dancing experience would include lots of bad thumping German techno, or something along those lines. So we prepared to humiliate everybody with our best Yelle and tektonic dance moves [arm arm, step-kick, bounce, bounce, elbows].

After a largish group of friends meets for some cocktails, they take us deep into a section of Mitte, on the former East. They tell us that we’re going to a place called the Clärchens Ballhaus. We’re told, repeatedly, that it “has a lot of history” and that it represents “very old Berlin.”

We’re not sure what to think about that. But it becomes clear. We walk through a beautiful garden courtyard toward the courthouse, clearly for summer beer garden enjoyment. Loud 60’s American music leaks through the doors as people open them to get in.

Naomi tells us that this bar was opened as a ballroom and dance club in the teens, and has basically been open since then. The entry cost is 3€, and to use the coat check will be an extra 2€. “Do we have to check our coats?” I ask. Our new journo friend says “It is strongly recommended,” which I assume means “yes.”

He then tells us that the coat check gentleman has worked here for over 40 years, and that the man has been taking coats from East Germans as they came to the ballhaus to dance their anxieties away since the 60s. This claim seems to be confirmed when we see him: his swift, direct coat-tagging style and his delicately managed bushy moustache, long since out of style.

We’re all amused by the place so far, although only D, myself and Svanur have never been here before. The smoky wood walls and creaking floors lend an air of weekend-used authenticity to our little ballhaus.

When we enter the main room, however, we are rendered immediately confused. The room is large, but not astoundingly so. There is an open dance floor in front of a low stage; tables and seats squished against one another; two old-looking wet bars, the wait-staff in faux tuxes. The lamps hanging from the ceiling look like Devo hats left in the sun since... well, the GDR days. And, most strangely, covering all the walls: flittering silver tinsel, that bounces the shimmers from the ginormous discoball with a confident kitsch.

[D wishes to explain to certain readers the overwhelming resemblance of the ballhaus' decor to a certain "Sparkle Column."]

We walk through the two middle-aged, apparently already drinking, ladies dancing with one another in the otherwise abandoned dance floor. The music is Del Shannon, and the DJ appears also to have been left behind after the fall of the wall, but who took to the cheekier aspects of West Berlin perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. He’s probably 65, with long white chops and a tied back rat-tail, thick Bobby Darin glasses, a died-black Van Dyke beard, a purple shiny shirt and black vest, rocking and rolling to the tunes that he’s laying down.

Svanur and I are bemused. The old ladies were not exactly thrilled to see that the energetic group that has joined them is, in fact, a bunch of Americans; their mood sours. The place has the air of the zaniest VFW or community hall, with accents of pure authentic history. A very strange place indeed.

We order food [mostly pizzas] and lots of beer and sit in to talk. We’re enjoying ourselves. The DJ keeps spinning mainly 60s American tunes, some British. Bobby Darin, Beatles, Monkees. The two dancing ladies join our table [they were there first, and seem bummed out that the group that bombed their table is, in fact, a bunch of Americans].

We’re deep in another conversation [I was asking a new journo friend about his feelings on Faulkner, oddly... I don’t know how that happened], when the discoball is sparked in bright red light and the stage comes alive, completely to our party’s surprise.

We size the band up, a roguish but scrawny batch. The lead singer has a flowing blond pompadour and tattoos, the woman playing the stand-up bass has a classic elegance about her, but otherwise, they look like a silly bad house band. Then, with a few words of German that ripple across the tinselled walls, they rip into the theme to Hawaii 5-0 by the Ventures.

The band, who will henceforth be known by name as the inimitable Big Fat Shakin’ [yes, that’s their name. Here’s their Myspace and homepage] takes us on a nutty journey from 1960 until about 1990, playing a slew of classics and known songs with a grand rockabilly twist. Notable among them, a pulsing rockabilly version of Michael Jackson’s “Beat It,” doubtless for dangling babies in their city. [Note: while we don't have any pictures of the ballhaus, if you vist Big Fat Shakin's homepage, they are some pictures there.]

The dance floor is packed, we’re having a great time, drinking beer, eating pizza, talking Faulker and Obama, wondering exactly where we are and how this came to be.

It’s 1913, and the ballhaus has just opened; it’s 1929 and we’re partying through the depression after the war as wild flappers; it’s 1965 and we’re crushed but optimistic with our smuggled music; it’s 1975 and we’re indulging our weekends away from the eyes of the GDR [but never really away]; it’s 1960 in America with our American surf tunes [the Venures?! Amazing]; it’s 2008, wonderingly looking back at all of this.

It’s Berlin.

So, that’s it. That’s the zoo and the ballhaus. I know that the ballhaus is a strange and wonderful place to have gone. D and I haven’t seen it in many of our travel guides. But let’s try to keep it that way, guys. It’s not the kind of place that should be broken open to the tourist crowd. It’s a great place to see; but it also seems to be kind of a sacred token that both D and I felt somewhat ambivalent about indulging- it clearly is a local joint, where old-school Berliners go to shake off their worries.