Multiple Reality Disorder

CORRECTED: Comparative Hypsterism: Required for incoming freshmen at all liberal arts schools

2012-05-08T06:19:00.000+02:00

I. Brooklyn (a.k.a. The Epicenter):

Vegan hot dogs, which I can later compost.

Hey Mr. Fedora & Flannel: I'm sure the spring water is just so you can have the bottle for your art project. Otherwise, the environmentalist in you will be sorely disappointed.

Just the fix for your fixed gear

The clothing. The iPhone. The baby: This hipster's got it all under control. (The Strand bag and pseudo-photographer are a nice touch.)

II. Berlin (a.k.a. Hipster's adopted brother)

What's he hiding under that thick scarf?

For the Hipster, a normal person's foul food is a locally grown, organic rare find to be heralded as unique.

Why didn't I think of digging up the weeds in my yard, putting them on a plate and getting 6€ for it?

The dream of the 1890s ...

We are trying soooo hard!

Time and technology, and living in-between

2012-04-22T12:00:00.000+02:00

Free time can be stressful, too. That’s a strange truth to accept, at least not without the urge to tisk, “Oh, poor thing”. But, hey, there it is.

I’ve had a nice work-life balance going the last several months. Yet anxiety crept up quietly behind me, anyway, and I couldn’t quite figure out why because everything seemed ideal. My workload had been manageable, relatively well-paying and rather enjoyable. All the while there’d been plenty of spare time to be social and take care of other things. What had I to complain about?

Until I realized, like so much else, it’s quality that matters, not quantity. The bulk of my downtime has been happening when most everyone else normally works, giving little reason to get up and out in the morning, and putting those open hours on a Sisyphean clock, counting down to the appointments that loomed at the end of the day. Most nights I wouldn’t get home until 10, which meant some kind of shotgun attempt of a healthy dinner, a shower (maybe) and then right to bed.

Result: For all that free time, no real down time. No time to turn off, to put one day behind and the next in front, warping my sense of time that had begun taking its toll. One day ran into the next into the next into the next. Sleep became less a clean divide between days than a bridge connecting them. No wonder time seemed to be flying particularly fast and entirely against my will to slow it.

Sorting that out won't be instant. One small but seemingly helpful step — which I strongly recommend — was setting my calendars’ default views to week instead of month. Looking across 31 days made time even more meaningless; the month had ended just as it was beginning. Looking across a mere 7 or 14 days has allowed me to focus only on what’s immediately forthcoming, which is all that really matters.

The question of time, and how to use it, confronted me again this week when I went to England for the London Book Fair, then spent the few days following with friends in London and Oxford.

With the work part of my trip over, I was debating what to do while my friends were busy with their own work. Better to take advantage of the place I was in or the time I had?

The latter was tempting, especially with the abundance of free wifi throughout England’s cities. There is an endless list of computer- and internet-based to-dos gladly waiting to occupy you if you let it. I resisted and went with the former, using the many digital tools at my fingertips to help me get out and see something real.

One day I wandered around Soho before a casual jaunt through the British Museum. The next day I walked most of central London, dodging rain and hoping for the next round of sun, continuing along the Thames towards Westminster.

It was right then, nearing Big Ben and the throng of tourists with their cameras pointed up, that something happened, and I was suddenly very happy. And then humbled, because I know of so many Americans who would like nothing more than the chance of a few days in London -- a rather modest goal given the scope of the globe and the depth of human desire. And here I was, just a hop from my life in another dream-city, Berlin, getting paid to be there.

Humility then turned to disappointment. In myself. Had I really considered an internet connection over a sensory one? When did I become so jaded, too cool for school? London, bah, what-ever.

I had become, or had come close to becoming, the very thing I despise: He whose digital presence has stopped augmenting his actual presence because it has started to replace it. So sucked in by the apps and the tweets and the memes, he has forgotten they are just tools to help him do better what he's always done.

He wouldn't swing a hammer if not to build something. Why post a status if not to inform, inspire or entertain? He has mistaken his means as ends, a mistake revealed only when there is nothing left to share because he's done nothing to share.

So I joined my fellow, blissful tourists past 10 Downing Street, through Trafalgar Square and up Long Acre -- a commercial pedestrian zone of Marks & Spencer's and H&M's I normally would avoid.

It was ok. I had no place to be. I had nothing I needed to do. The blogging could wait until I had something to blog about. Time was on my side.

English mit Bill: Learning 2.0 meets Web 2.0

2012-03-23T00:12:00.001+01:00

I have a Twitter account to help me practice German. Now I've set up a Tumblr feed to help others practice English. It's called "English mit Bill" (it's funny because it's Dinglish). It's an experiment, so I can't say yet how it works overall. How it gets used, and how to maximize its benefit, will develop over time.

However, like all good learning (and all good websites), it's interactive. Tumblr, unlike other popular blogging platforms like Blogspot and Wordpress, is well suited for snippets of information: more than Twitter, but less than a full-blown blog. It's great for posting content from elsewhere on the Web. And because it's a social network of sorts, it's easy to connect with others.

Above all else, anyone -- with or without an account -- can submit content to the blog. That means my students and clients have a new way to do homework I assign, an at-a-glance foundation for in-class discussion topics and a new way to keep in touch with English on their own time. English mit Bill is a central depository -- a moodle, if you will -- to find and keep track of interesting and useful information from around the Web that could be helpful to the English learner.

Take a moment to browse the set up. Give me some feedback. And for the truly motivated, help me out by submitting something or asking a question directly on the feed.

An unscientific, yet personal iPad review

2012-03-22T22:25:00.000+01:00

I had a block of time to kill during the work day yesterday, so I decided to stop by Gravis, the major Apple reseller that stands in as Berlin's Apple Store until the city gets the real thing later this year. It was conveniently just minutes away from my next appointment.

Which is which? If you guessed the one on the right is Number 3, you're correct. Maybe you can see the improved resolution. Sure, but is it that much better?

The new iPads made their first in-store appearances at the end of last week, and except for a few minutes playing with a colleague's the day before, I hadn't yet, but wanted to, check them out. I got lucky because Gravis had both the "old" 2 and the new, we're-not-calling-it-three 3 on display next to each other. This gave me the unexpected opportunity to compare them directly, side-by-side.

After an hour of poking, prodding and inspecting, my conclusion matched the hypothesis I went in with: The new iPad, though technologically impressive, hits only the "that's it?" point on the Wow-scale. (It doesn't help No. 3's case that I had to ask the salesperson which one was the new one.)

Therein lies the rub. The disciples who gladly drink from the well of Apple will say that you of course have to buy the new iPad because it's better. Brilliant, Watson: Of course it's better; that's how product updates work (unless you're Microsoft. Zing! Wicked nerd burn).

The real question should be: Is the new iPad so much better, and does it offer something so much more, that it's worth spending the extra money for it? Answer: Definitively no.

Which was, of course, my bias going into this very unscientific, yet well-intentioned, product comparison. Strange it may sound, but I'm looking to convince myself that I don't need to spend the extra money for the latest and greatest, not that I do. If everyone thought this way, capitalism would surely grind to a nasty halt.

But enough economic theory. Onto the test. Apple is heralding two, major enhancements: Screen quality and speed. This is what I focused on.

Perhaps you've heard of this Retina Display. There's no disputing it's a beautiful thing. Gillette wishes its razors were as sharp as the resolution of the new iPad. Everything is super crisp and bright -- a few notches brighter than the iPad 2. Apple did something impressive by being able to squeeze all those pixels onto such a tiny chip and pack it into a lightweight, portable device that the general public could afford.

Apple is selling its Retina Display on the slick-sounding point that it has better resolution than the big screen HDTV hanging in your living room. Which is exactly why the Retina Display, though really lovely, is totally unnecessary. It's just logic: Why is the resolution on your HDTV plenty good at 50+", but not good enough on the iPad's 9.7"? Not to mention, the resolution could be too good.

iPad 2's screen resolution is already amazing. Open up any text, zoom in as much as you can, and at a normal reading distance, your eye won't be able to see the pixels, either.

Which brings us to speed. The new iPad boasts a processor with twice the graphics power. But that's to keep up with the demands of the Retina Display. Ergo, no net gain. (Same goes for the battery.) And anyway, I challenge the average iPad user to show me how s/he uses the full performance the processor provides -- on the 2, let alone the new one. Email and Angry Birds probably don't require it.

Of course the new iPad is 4G-ready, but that's no feat; it's merely keeping up with standards. If you're in Europe like me, it's all show because there's nearly no 4G here to use. If you're a human like me, existing 3G is already plenty fast for your emails on the go. Anything heavier, like movie downloads, you'll probably do over a wifi network, anyway.

As for other measures of speed, the iPad 2 actually won out. It loaded apps faster, played videos faster and buffered them just about as fast as the new iPad. Web pages at first loaded faster (much faster) on the new iPad, until I figured out it was connected to a stronger network. When I put both on the same network, Web results were nearly equal.

All in all, the best feature of the new iPad may very well be the lower price for the old one. In the meantime, I'll save my money for the iPad with the frameless screen, truly faster processor and battery life, Siri and -- who could do without one -- the laser-projected virtual keyboard.

Whichever iPad you choose, at least you can sleep a little better knowing your tech addiction isn't fueling evil in the developing world quite as much as we were lead to believe. Because as hip as it is to love Apple, it's just as hip to hate it. Surprise, surprise.

Pictures of the day: Improv!

2012-03-19T17:05:00.000+01:00

Click here for photos from Saturday night's improv show

Pictures of the day: A hidden Italian imbiss. Found.

2012-03-09T10:08:00.000+01:00

I first heard about Charlotte I months and months ago from none other than this guy (as usual). And ever since, and despite numerous attempts, I could never find it.

I was told it was a hole in the wall. I was told it was a weekday lunch place only the area residents knew about. I was aware it was in the middle of nowhere, at the very end (beginning?) of Charlottenstr., obscured by dilapidated, concrete low-rises, and looked over by the posh spots not much further up the street.

All true. Yet despite being fully briefed, several careful surveys over the months came up with nothing.

Finally, today, on a sunny, warmish, Friday afternoon, there it was. A little like Indiana Jones finding the location of the Ark only when the sun reached the right angle in the sky.

The food is fast, fantastic and, best of all, cheap. Everything's about 3-4€. 5€ at most. The Italian staff is friendly. And, true to the description, popular with the lunchtime crowd.

It helps knowing about such places, especially in this area of Berlin. In a gentrified, commercial district home to equal parts business people and tourists, finding a decent, affordable spot to satisfy your midday hunger can be a challenge.

Pictures of the day: At the old Schultheiss brewery

2012-03-08T16:51:00.000+01:00

Etiquette and Ordnung

2012-03-02T20:17:00.001+01:00

No. Please. After you. I insist. Have a seat. Are you comfortable enough? Don't mind me and my bike.

Even though this is the bike car -- one of the few there are per train, whereas you have every other one in which you could comfortably sit. Nevertheless, I apologize sincerely for bothering you. Let me move out of the way so you can shuffle around my frame and crunch yourself into a seat that isn't for you and you don't have to sit in.

Yes, your unabashed glare of disapproval in my direction is totally warranted. Because I am, naturally, the one at fault here. After all, I only had to buy an extra ticket to bring my bike on the train in the first place. I'm sorry, did my bike bump into you when the train stopped? That tends to happen.

You know where that doesn't happen? Everywhere else on the train. Where there are no bikes.

Please. Again. After you. Just maneuver ever-so-awkwardly around my bike even though I've already begun to wheel it backwards out of the train and onto the station platform. Squeeze out the doors like a champagne cork under pressure. Quick! Jump! As fast and as far as you can! As if the train were on fire.

The station elevators (when there are any) are notoriously slow. Your excess body weight is making them that much slower. I suggest the stairs. It would be better for both of us. Because if you're not very old, very young, or schlepping something other than your own, built-in winter coat, you shouldn't be lining up at the elevator in front of those who are.

In Deutschland nennen wir das "Ordnung". In Amerika ist das "etiquette". Entweder oder, du nervst mich.

Picture of the day: One day of sun above freezing does not springtime make

2012-02-21T16:20:00.001+01:00

Yes, Germans, it's still February. Your optimism was so ... American.

Picture of the day: Let us never forget the tragic events of Sept. 11, 2002

2012-02-21T16:19:00.001+01:00

From McMillan's B1-level "In Company" textbook

Tinker, tailor, teacher, toilet liberator

2012-02-20T18:35:00.001+01:00

It started like any other English lesson: Three hours, one-to-one, with an upper-intermediate college student preparing for the TOEFL exam. It was evening, and the school was all but empty -- just one other English lesson going on, all other spaces dark and still.

At the halfway mark, it was time for a break. Nothing unusual about that. The student went downstairs to the toilet, on the floor that's below ground. It's a one-person toilet, just that and a sink, a shower stall for some reason, and space for cleaning supplies. More a utility closet than bathroom (a funny thing for Americans to call a place you don't bathe in), and doesn't retain much heat.

Minutes passed. I had begun to twiddle my thumbs, then also went downstairs to the small corner of teacher materials, adjacent the toilet. Sound travels well in a basement insulated by earth, especially when no other activity is present to distract from the nighttime silence.

I could hear my student turning the lock and latch. Then again. Again. And again. But the door didn't open.

"Having trouble?" I asked, as haphazardly as one might the time. "Uh," she responded. "Yes."

Clearly she was doing something wrong. Sometimes the lock needed a bit of jiggling. Surely if she just pulled the door in and gave the lock a good twist, it would dislodge and the door would be free to open.

We tried that for about five minutes before realizing the problem was larger than such a simple solution could resolve. Fortunately, I carry my pocket knife in my bike bag, and the Swiss are very good at getting (and staying) out of pickled situations. No doubt, it would help me here.

In fact, it did not. Even removing the handle from the outside gave me no better access to removing the lock, or at least getting at it to open from the outside. You'd think this was Fort Knox, but really it was just an old, cheap lock securing an even older, cheaper door.

I tried to make light of a situation that had started as peculiar before moving through befuddling on its way to laughable because that's all we could do. "Think of all the new English words you're learning, like 'latch', 'hinge' and 'jiggle'," I said. Meanwhile, I was learning new German words and phrases like, Ein Mädchen ist im Klo verschlossen.

She was being a real champ about the whole thing. Albeit cold.

We were getting close to the half-hour mark with zero progress made, and the absurdity of the scene -- a teacher asking a student if she thought she was strong enough to kick down a door -- was settling in. With no one else to call or turn to (except the fire department, an idea that persisted in pricking the back of my brain), I dialed the one person I knew would think of something I would not.

My girlfriend suggested I try to find the number to a handyman or building manager, anyone whose job might be to handle odd tenant predicaments.

A list of names and numbers posted in the building's entrance led me first to the building's emergency contact -- but his purview was limited to fires. The next number I dialed was to a man whose responsibilities I couldn't quite discern, but he was useful in guiding me to Herr Fix-It on the second floor.

Her Fix-It came to the door looking exactly as you would expect a German maintenance man to look like at 8 p.m. on a Thursday: a 40-something-year-old tea pot with a bushy, gray handlebar mustache; matching hair unchanged -- except for baldness off the top -- since the 80s; and a gut stretching out his white undershirt to pour over his belt. Naturally helpful and suitably friendly.

Like an injured linebacker coming off the field, he wobbled down the stairs, across the building entrance, into the school and squeezed oh-so-gingerly down the narrow, winding steps leading to the toilet. Shooing the students from the other lesson who had, by now, joined in curiosity, he got on his knees and put his face up the bewitching handle, inspecting it. He wiggled it and jostled it, turned it and played with it, each wiggle and jostle, turn and play exasperating him a little bit more, burdening his hefty frame bit by bit.

"I need tools," he said between labored breaths. No doubt a real set of tools would put this strange happening behind us in a jiffy, and I was finally feeling good about the whole thing. At least responsibility for freeing this patient person from her frosty, windowless holding cell was no longer mine.

Except it wasn't a jiffy. It was another 20 minutes, at least, of pulling and prying, banging and beating. At last he jimmied the door open, the handle, lock and all its pieces scattered on the floor.

So concluded the epic drama, a cautionary tale reminding all of us to never be far from our battering rams.

T-Mobile vs. Callmobile: It's no comparison

2012-02-14T18:22:00.000+01:00

Recently, I handed out Custy Awards for superior customer service I experienced during 2011. One such recipient was Callmobile, my hassle-free, no-brainer mobile phone provider that's easy on the wallet.

Now this decision is being called into question. By none other than Andreas Main.

Don't get me wrong, I like Andreas Main. I respect Andreas Main. I have coffee regularly with Andreas Main. Without Andreas Main, my Twitter following would be effectively zero.

But should we trust Andreas Main? I think not. If anything because he's a journalist, and public opinion polls -- the very ones journalists themselves love to source -- are quite clear on journalists' trustworthiness.

If we were to believe Andreas Main, T-Mobile would be as entitled to a prestigious Custy as is Callmobile. This is nothing short of a gross insult. Why even have fake awards if they're just going to be tossed about here and there like grass seed come spring?

To review, Callmobile is a small, streamlined, Web-based provider of mobile voice, text and data services. Its website is well designed, and the services and features (and costs therein) are clearly laid out. A menu of options that is extensive without being overwhelming provides the Callmobile customer with flexibility and choice -- all with the freedom of no contract. I, for example, have all my mobile internet needs served for as little as a few euros each month, thanks to Callmobile's one-of-a-kind, pay-per-minute (rather than per-kilobyte) rate, rendering flat-rates and inclusive offers obsolete.

As for customer service, it can't be beat. When I have a question, it is answered almost immediately by email -- even on weekends.

Turning to T-Mobile, part of Telekom, Germany's former monopoly and still a hulking, aging telecommunications provider of yesteryear. I don't know where to begin because its website is so unbelievably unwieldy. So many plans, so many options, so many different ways to turn that look attractive, but it takes only a bit of poking beneath the surface to realize these special deals are anything but.

Let's say I'm looking for an internet package for my iPad 3G. With T-Mobile, I'd have to pay 30€/month, every month, for two years just to get the most basic service, and still pay 420€ for the iPad itself. I could get the iPad for less, about 270€, if I go with a complete mobile package, but that's 40€/month, and includes talk and text for a device you can't talk or text with.

If I want to pay just 99€ for the iPad -- the most subsidized T-Mobile offers -- I would have to pay 100€/month for features I can't use.

Does this make sense to you, Andreas Main?

It is true what Andreas Main writes, that Callmobile is not well suited for iPad or iPhone because Callmobile does not (yet) offer the micro-SIM card that iOS devices require. You can go with Simyo or Blau for that, and still save money and remain contract-free.

It's clear that if Andreas Main has a complaint, it can only be against himself for trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. Or to put it a way he would better understand, it's like an American getting repeatedly agitated by Germans' inability to understand basic rules of the road. The two just don't go together, and trying to force them to will only lead to disappointment -- or a ruined SIM card.

Sure, Andreas Main enjoys free phone support from T-Mobile -- a rarity in the German customer service landscape. But what he barely mentions is it's not really free. You either pay for it as a "comfort" or otherwise premium customer or, if you're lucky to be a journalist like he, receive it as a perk for being who you are.

I should conclude by saying I'm not being entirely fair. T-Mobile, like O2 and other big telecommunication companies, provides an important service. It may very well deserve recognition for customer service. Just not a distinguished Custy.

Andreas Main, you are more than welcome to sit on your own jury and decide.

Meanwhile, back at home, cultural events abound

2012-02-01T21:55:00.000+01:00

Looking for something to do this weekend and coming week, people of and around Fairfield, CT? Look no further than Fairfield U's Quick Center, where on Friday you can catch a one-man, live-stage production of "Star Wars". Yes, that "Star Wars".

Canadian actor Charles Ross will perform all parts. Including music. In 60 minutes.

The entire Trilogy.

A brother and sister kissing because they didn't know they were brother and sister not romantic enough for you? Then head to the Fairfield Museum on Thursday the 9th to check out "Love Hurts". Just in time for Valentine's Day, a bunch of guys calling themselves metrosexual will share their real-life stories of dating hardship and heartbreak.

There's no way that can be anything but a winning Valentine's date. Shove it, candlelit dinner.

Who knew Fairfield was so full of artistic talent and creative minds? Perhaps in March, a flash mob can appear on the Town Green to reenact the assassination of Julius Caesar. I'll be on the lookout for it.

Picture of the day: From Prussia to today in the snow

2012-01-29T11:10:00.001+01:00

Out for Lange Nacht der Museen, Berlin's twice annual museum night, nearing Museum Island, where two centuries of history get crammed together: On the far left, the Prussian-era Berliner Dom, to the far right, today's city hall, with the ugly Park Inn Hotel and communist-built TV Tower in between. The utterly pointless Humboldt Box sits atop what used to be the Prussian Palace, which with a few billion more euros, may one day be again.

Picture of the day: Berlin posthumously honors Frankenstein with a street in his name

2012-01-14T15:56:00.000+01:00

Strange, I can't find this on Google Maps ...

Friday: 28 km by bike. Give or take.

2012-01-14T15:13:00.001+01:00

Just another normal day at work ...
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The 2011 Custy Awards

2012-01-12T00:05:00.002+01:00

Readers of this blog will know I use a considerable amount of its space demonstrating my curmudgeon skills. On any given day, chances are good that someone, somewhere, has wronged me. Maybe the woman at the post office didn't want to refund a stamp I had bought by accident. It could be the cyclist in front of me stopping at a red light on an empty street. Or perhaps an airline thinks 15€ is more valuable than a customer. You know who you are.

With 2012 settling in -- no, my New Year's resolution is not to complain less (where's the fun in that?) -- it's a good time to take a look back at 2011 to recognize those few companies that bucked the trend. They deserve praise and to be made an example of, and I do so by bestowing upon them the prestigious Custy Award -- my very own, completely made up prize for those who have demonstrated outstanding customer service in the past year.

1. Custy for Most Consistent goes to ... Amazon

This comes as no surprise, and is probably getting a bit boring by now. But credit must be given where it is due. Whether .com or .de, Amazon is fantastic (partly thanks to having more money than most mid-sized nations, which enables them to afford being fantastic). Not only can you get absolutely everything you could ever possibly want, and get absolutely everything you could ever possibly want without taking off your slippers, but you get absolutely everything you could ever possibly want at the lowest price around. Then it comes to you in, like, three days.

And if you don't like what you just got, you can return it. For free. No questions asked. If you aren't sure about something, you can email them, and Amazon will email you back. Normally in less than a day. In Germany, they have English-speaking customer service just for dumb Americans like me.

You can even call them to talk to a real person. I'm starting to wonder what Amazon will not do for you; I'm almost tempted to call them up and ask for something ridiculous, like free shopping for a year. Just to see what they will say.

One quibble, and that is the free shipping claim. It's a good deal if you're buying several things that together come to more than $25 or 20€. However, if you're buying just one thing over the free shipping threshold, chances are good that Amazon's offer, which says free shipping, will be conspicuously $5, or 5€, more than that from a third party, where delivery is $5, or 5€, extra. You see the fuzzy math going on here. So even if shipping is free, you're still not saving any money.

2. Custy for Most Low-key Reliable goes to ... Callmobile

If you've never heard of Callmobile, it's probably because you enjoy spending more money than you should on your mobile phone plan. Also because they are an online-only, pay-as-you-go, no-contract mobile service provider. I've had them for as long as I've had a German bank account.

Callmobile is totally hassle free -- there when you need them, not when you don't. Signing up and managing your account is super easy, all done through their website by simply checking boxes for the features you want as part of your plan. You can monitor your phone use any time with down-to-second, line-itemized tracking, then download the information into a PDF or have Callmobile generate a bill for you every month at no cost.

Extreme circumstances notwithstanding, I never pay more than 15€/month for all my talking, texting and web browsing. There's no need for one of their several internet flats, because at 9 cents/minute (yes, minute, not kilobyte), I can check all the email I want, look for as many directions as I need and update my calendar as much as necessary all for a couple euros per month.

If that sounds like neither a lot nor not a lot, consider that a contract with any major German provider will run you a minimum of 20-25€/month, and you'll still be paying as much as .30€ per SMS or minute of talk as soon as your paltry, included data is used up. Not to mention the two years of your life you have to give them.

Unfortunately, Callmobile doesn't yet offer the micro-SIM required for iPhone/iPad, meaning you'd have to manually cut a regular SIM down to size. But given the pace at which Callmobile adds new features, I'm confident that's just a matter of time.

ACHTUNG! Gefällt dir das? Natürlich. Wenn du wechseln willst, ich kann erstmal dir eine Empfehlung machen. Dann bekommen wir beides Geld!

3. Custy for Most Delightful goes to ... DM

Americans living in America won't be able to appreciate this because they are accustomed to friendly service, pleasing shopping environments, incredible selection and low prices. Not always the case here.

Then there's DM, something like a CVS or Duane Reade. But better. I could live there. When I'm bored, I go there just to walk around. I stop in for shampoo and come out with shampoo and yummy snacks and warm shoe liners and bar soap for .35€. Thirty-five cents!

The store is bright and clean and cheery. There's a water cooler if you're thirsty (and if you're not). Toys for children. Strange products like organic cabbage juice. And if you're lucky, you overhear frou-frou conversations from frou-frou parents such as, "Should we get more nipples? My nipples have disintegrated."

DM is a delight. And they take Payback, a German partner rewards program that is slowly but surely turning me into my coupon-clipping grandmother. One day I'll have enough points to get that thing I never wanted and don't need.

4. Custy for Most Surprising goes to ... Alice DSL

It's been a tough year for Alice, the Spanish-owned home internet and telephone provider. In October, they had to rather hastily boot their bombshell model, popularly known as the Alice Girl, when it was learned that the 23-year-old Italian was in bed -- literally -- with one of the Qaddafi sons. And quite unapologetically so.

My relationship with Alice (the company, that is) also did not end the year well. For reasons still not entirely figured out, I was without internet for a week in December. They shipped me a new modem/router and, make a boring story short, 60 minutes in mangled telephone German, and more than 22€ in technical support fees and 3G internet use later, the internet in my apartment was back.

It was a long shot, but I wanted my money back. You see, German companies do not believe in the toll-free number, which if I've read the Bible correctly, God created just before his nap on the Seventh Day. Companies are not eager to help their customers like they are in America (consider, Kellogg's actually pays a person to field questions about Pop-Tarts). In Germany, the customer is king much in the same way Prince Charles is.

Now Germany does many, many (and I mean, many -- too many to discuss here) things better than the United States, but customer service is not one of those things (which is odd, given Germany's emphasis on fairness, which also happens to be one of those things Germany does better than the U.S.). It's not because Germans aren't fully aware they're getting screwed. They are. It's because Germans are very bad at being assholes*.

Everyone mocked me, but my determination paid off. It wasn't much more than an hour after sending them an email that I received an email back. And it wasn't much more than a day after Christmas that Alice confirmed they would be taking 22€ off my forthcoming bill.

For their remarkable response time and respect for the customer, this Custy is most definitely for them.

5. Custy for Least Bureaucratic goes to ... German bureaucracy

In closing out 2011 and ringing in 2012, the one thought I couldn't get out of my head was: I have to pay taxes again? Didn't I just do that last year?

Indeed, a feat of Sisyphean proportions. And this year (by which I mean, last year) I kept much better track of business expenses and am aiming to do a much better job at reducing my tax burden -- all without a tax advisor, even though everyone says you simply can't live without one, but I will because the money they could possibly save me is probably not worth the money it would definitely cost me to have them save me the money.

The nice thing about paying taxes in Germany -- no, not that they go to health insurance, helping families and students, subsidizing clean energy and keeping people at work -- is that the tax office acts as a kind of tax advisor in its own right. You tell them your situation, show them your documents, ask them your questions, and they'll tell you what you have to do. Of course, they're not going to advertise the loopholes a private advisor would, but again, for someone in my position, those loopholes are likely not to be that lucrative, anyway. Better to pay what you legally owe, save what you legally can, and move on with your life (by which I mean, get ready for next year's taxes).

My local tax office gets the Custy for least bureaucratic for doing something simple: they answered my email. Not once, not twice, but three times. Each time promptly, patiently and thoroughly.

They share this award with another arm of the German state, the foreigner's office -- a.k.a., the kind people who give you your visa, thus your life, in Germany.

Dealing with the foreigner's office is always an ordeal. You need to make an appointment 4-6 weeks before you need it. You're supposed to email them, but I've never gotten a response. Calling times are limited to about 20 minutes a day, and only when the dew point drops below 70. Which means you have to schlep up there and do it in person.

And it is a schlep. For a city where you are never more than a block from public transport, the foreigner's office is the dark side of the moon. On the river, surrounded by old and dilapidated factories, and criss-crossing railroad tracks. George Orwell couldn't have described a more fitting location.

Same goes for the building itself. Huge, hulking and concrete. Halls, rooms and floors divided into numbers and letters, each corresponding to countries and individuals' last names. What's that about parallel lines never meeting? Well they do: at the foreigner's office, wherever the harshly lit corridors end.

Even though I just had my visa extended a year ago, I'm subjecting myself to further torment because I should be eligible for an unrestricted freelance visa, meaning I can do any kind of freelance work, not only teach English. We shall see.

The appointment-making process described above? Gone. Replaced by a fully automated, do-it-yourself online booking system. It's brilliant. And incredibly easy. Choose some options from a few drop-down menus; enter your information; and choose (yes, YOU get to choose) the date AND time YOU want (want!) to come. No longer a 4-6 week wait, appointments are now available with as little as one week notice.

Now we have to see if this digitized system has been extended to their file-keeping, as well. Or if they'll dust off that big manila folder of information they have about me -- and every other foreigner operating legally here.

---

So there you have it. The 2011 Custy Awards. If you're a company and would like to be considered for a 2012 Custy, it's easy: impress me.

*Naturally, you assume "asshole" to be negative. You assume wrong. Like everything, it's about context and control. Sometimes you need to be an asshole. The situation calls for it. Germans, always circumspect, err on the side of less asshole. Americans, convinced of their entitlement, err on the side of more. Once again, the theory I developed early into my time here holds: Combining American and German values would make for a hell of a society.

Check out my swanky new splash page from about.me

2011-12-07T13:56:00.001+01:00

About.me/billglucroft

Picture of the day: ... And after. Kaiser's fit for a king

2011-12-03T11:03:00.001+01:00

People of Wrangelkiez rejoice! Even we are worthy of a grocery store fit for human consumption. At lightning pace, the neighborhood Kaiser's transformed from disaster area to friendly supermarket. Still small, of course, and still without flour. Nonetheless, a major and long-past-due improvement. Now open till midnight!

Relatedly, it's a good time to point out German sales philosophy, which can be summarized as 1-for-5, 2-for-10. Or in the picture below, 400 grams of bread crumbs for .99€, 1000 grams of bread crumbs for, you got it, .99€.

Oh the places your trash goes

2011-11-27T09:31:00.000+01:00

What is the Berlin Wall doing today?

Sorting Berlin's trash

What I love most about being an English teacher to adults is the chance to peer inside the many jobs and companies that make up an economy. In this case, the only functional economy, it seems, left on earth: Germany's. It's fascinating to see first-hand the thousands of ways a person can earn a living, and how they all add up to fill the big picture.

Every day I show up to one company or another and get to learn what it does, and what different people in that organization do. Occasionally I get to do something even cooler. That is, see for myself just how a modern society continues to function every day without falling into complete chaos, a fact that defies logic given the seven billion people who now inhabit the planet.

On Friday, I got to tour the Alba sorting facility, a relatively new and sprawling complex responsible for sorting the daily paper and packaging refuse of some four million people in Berlin, the area and a couple nearby regions.

Awesome, right?

Germany, it likely doesn't surprise you, has some of the highest recycling standards in Europe (which probably also means the world). When I first came here, it was hard to get my head around the fact that pretty much everything I called "trash" in the U.S. is recycled here. Though the target of mockery and cause for confusion, the system is pretty simple: blue is for paper; yellow is for packaging (plastic and metal); brown is for bio (that's right, food and other organic material gets composted on a nationwide scale); a new orange box takes heavier items like kitchen appliances; and glass is either collected on the street (itself sub-divided into brown, green and clear/white) or brought back to the store, along with plastic bottles, for a handsome deposit return (similar to what some U.S. states have, only far more comprehensive).

There is a gray or black bin for actual trash -- items that don't fall into the above-mentioned categories. But since these are so broad, there is, or should be, very little left over. That's my experience, anyway.

Why go through the effort? Sure it takes stress off the environment. It also can earn you bags of cash. Waste management is big business, and the German market is fiercely competitive, involving all kinds of operators both public and private. Once sorted and stacked, the valuable materials retrieved from our every day garbage is sold by the ton, to re-enter the manufacture stream of products we will later buy, use and throw out again.

Picture of the day: Kaiser's gutted. Be careful what you tweet

2011-11-14T15:49:00.001+01:00

From almost Day 1 of living here, I have reserved a special ire for the Kaiser's grocery store closest to me. I am not alone, of course. It is a regular target of contempt among those in the neighborhood.

Generally speaking, Kaiser's is at the higher end of the German food shopping experience. In all their locations, that is, except the one on Wrangelstr. Ours is tiny, cramped, often out of stock of the basics, and staffed by a group of post-prime women who are at worst grumpy and at best totally clueless. It much more resembles an Aldi -- owner of Trader Joe's, and famous for its cut-throat prices and shabby looking stores -- which itself resembles a third-world country after a government collapse and before a UN peacekeeping force arrives.

Even the Kaiser's in Kottbusser Tor is gleaming and spacious -- and nothing should rank below anything you find in Kottbusser Tor. (You will recall this was the exact spot of the pro-Turkey demo from a few weeks ago.)

To more clearly make my point, a few weeks ago I found a total of zero employees at the cash registers. I waited. And waited. And waited. I politely tried to catch someone's eye. When that didn't work, I gently asked for someone to open a line. Their reaction? A less than courteous, "Yea, we're coming soon. Just wait!"

Sorry, if I had known how much of an inconvenience it would be, I would have gladly walked out without paying.

Just last Friday, I went in for milk, flour and oats -- pretty much the most staple items you can get. They were completely out of the cheaper, store-brand flour and out of all oats entirely.

This incident led me to tweet from my German handle: Who wants to join me in buying the Wrangelstr. Kaiser's, and making it into a real super market?

Apparently, someone read that and took me up on my offer. Because not three days later, Monday, I came across the image you see above: a completely demolished storefront, undergoing a from-scratch renovation.

I just hope they fix it up soon. I've got to shop somewhere.

Rundown of blog-worthy Germans I've crossed the last weeks

2011-11-10T23:32:00.000+01:00

1. At the synagogue
Last week started an informal Parsha discussion group -- that is, a collection of people from the neighborhood interested in talking about that week's Torah portion. I dare not call it "Torah study", lest I give us (but mostly me) a far more intellectual air than we (mostly I) deserve. Really, it's a fledgling attempt to bring young people out of the woodwork, providing a friendly setting that may prompt them to get more involved with a, let's face it, aging community.

The first meeting was quite successful, with nine turning up -- German, Israeli and some other countries, with the language of discussion reflecting those nationalities (I ended up slogging through a liberal interpretation that was translated into German from the original English). Group dynamics were pretty quickly established, revealing who was there to talk, who was there to listen, and who was there for the cake and tea.

The Parsha was Lech L'cha, a grounding moment for the Jewish narrative, when Abraham journeyed to the Holy Land and accepted God as the one and only. With help from Dekel, who's knowledge of such things was revealed through the whole three lines of text we got through after nearly two hours, I actually learned something. It turns out that the Abraham story every Jew knows from Hebrew school doesn't have much to do with the actual story. Far from it. Not only does it appear from the text that Abraham didn't rebel against his father's idol worship (you will recall the smashing of the idols and so forth that was Abraham's act of adolescent rebellion), but he was in fact continuing a journey his father himself had started.

Who knew?

If that sounds appealing, come down to Fraenkelufer on Thursday evenings from 7-9. You'll find me there only irregularly due to other commitments, though it does fit well with poker later that night.

2. At the pool
I've mentioned I've started using the pool just across the park from me. Normally, I get in on the student price (a whopping euro less), because my college ID has no expiry date and I'm still under 27 (another requirement for reduced-price eligibility). In all but one case, the cashiers have been very friendly. I simply show my college ID in combination with my drivers license to prove my age (which I always have to guide them to, given Connecticut's eye-friendly decision to put the birthdate in red against the blue background of Long Island Sound). Aware there may come a time the cashier might not go for this, I kept the old entrance tickets to show as precedent.

That time came a few weeks ago, and in a big way. A fat, nasty woman who treated her glass-enclosed cashier box as the Pope's throne would neither accept my IDs nor care that none of her colleagues had previously denied me the reduced price. Silly me, I hadn't realized she had anointed herself as unilateral, omnipotent decider and enforcer of pool regulations.

For the euro, it wasn't worth fighting. However, I was so eager to leave her to relish alone in the meaningless victory of her bitchiness, I didn't realize she had failed to give me the one euro in change I deserved because, upon closer inspection, I saw she had given me the euro-more two-hour ticket instead of the one-hour I had asked for.

An additional euro I could deal with, but a second as a result of her anti-customer vitriol was more than I was willing to swallow. Plus, I needed it for the locker key deposit.

Problem was, I didn't put all this together until after I had gone through the electronic turnstile. And once you go in, you don't go back. But I did, and she was less than pleased to see my face again on the other side of her glass, especially with the contemptuous idea of telling her she had wrongly shorted me.

When she asked if I had gone through already, I knew how to answer: in the negative. (Mind you, this is all in German, which made her sound extra unpleasant.) Reluctantly, and feeling at least the tad bit bested, she returned my euro and printed me a new ticket.

Flush with catharsis, I headed back to the turnstile, dipping the exchanged ticket into the scanner. I guess by then she had checked the computer system, because a deafening boom rang out across the empty lobby. "YOU DID GO THROUGH! YOU DID GO THROUGH! COME BACK HERE!!"

In a flash, my German skills vanished, as did my ability to hear entirely. I slipped through the turnstile, my lumbering bike bag squeaking by behind me, and fled to the safety of the men's locker room, while she sat helplessly trapped in her box, suddenly feeling more like a spiteful cage than throne-on-high.

3. At the train station
Deutsche Bahn tickets are expensive. Everyone knows that. Fortunately, non-Europeans and non-Europeans only have an alternative. They are eligible for the German Rail Pass, which allows 3-10 days of unlimited travel to anywhere Deutsche Bahn trains go, valid for one month, all for less than many one-way, long-distance tickets. All you need is your non-EU passport. It's a bargain, I tell you!

I was intending to make use of this offer last month for travel to the Frankfurt Book Fair, then onto Kai in Tübingen, then back to Berlin at the close of the weekend.

A few days before travel, I went to the ticket office at the main station (one of the few places you can get this sort of pass). Upon presenting my American passport, the young woman behind the desk kindly informed me my German work visa negated my right to purchase the pass.

We sparred politely for a few minutes, during which she tried to convince me the pass is valid only for tourists, thereby excluding any foreigner here longer than six months, and I tried to convince her that a) I've purchased the pass several times before without trouble, and b) the Deutsche Bahn website clearly states any holder of a non-EU passport -- full stop -- is eligible.

The debate ended in a draw when I told her the information she was showing me to support her case, by virtue of being on DB's intranet, was impossible for the customer to know about, and was contrary to the information that supported my case, found on the internet -- available everywhere, it seems, but the DB ticket office computer system.

Solution: Come back with the information and we'll compare notes. Which I did, more than an hour after criss-crossing the city to get home, back to the station and wait in line.

This time, another, slightly older version of the first woman (and two desks down from her) took on my case, with the same response.

The fact is, I told her over the coming 10 minutes, nowhere in either my or your information says the word "tourist", so my purpose for being in Germany and the length of time I've been here makes no difference. Yes, there is a six-month clause, but that applies to Europeans living outside Europe, not non-Europeans living inside Europe. I'm sorry your company only puts the information about the German Rail Pass in English (exactly because it's for foreigners), though I'm happy to translate it for you, and if you're telling me that what's on the DB intranet nullifies what's on the DB internet, then what's the point of having a website for the public at all?

Ultimately, I failed to convince her. I did, however, accomplish something far greater. Something I never thought I could against a German public servant: Give up. I didn't walk out of there with rail pass in hand because she thought I was right; I did because she thought I was exhausting.

4. At the cafe
Nest is a typical, and typically suitable, cafe in my neighborhood, with the good fortune of having unobstructed access to sunshine -- when, that is, the sun is so kind to grace Berlin with its presence. It's also the frequent meeting point for me and my German tandem partner, Andreas (found, mostly in German, here and here).

It was on one of these very precious sunny days that we met there, and managed to secure one of the few, unused outside tables. The waitress serving this area we are familiar with. She's quite pleasant and down to earth, but something of a space cadet -- on a good day, and with nearly every seat taken and every table full and she responsible for all of them, this was not a good day.

Her sweet aloofness presented itself when trying twice to take our order without first giving us the menus we had asked for from which to order. When we at last managed to sneak a peek at one, I was excited to see pumpkin lasagna as the day's special.

"Pumpkin lasagna is out," she quickly informed us, and just as quickly disappeared into the cafe. When she popped back over to us, she dashed my second choice. "Lentil soup is also out," disappearing again, only to return moments later with new information. "Lentil soup is in, pumpkin soup is out. Pumpkin lasagna is still out."

And a final, breathless revision: "There's no pumpkin lasagna. The lentil soup is out. But you can have the pumpkin soup."

Now successfully confused, we went with two of the other pasta dishes we were more confident actually existed, which came out in record time, only without the accompanying drinks. Those never came, so we moved right onto cappuccino.

She did her best to bring these without fail, but as she set mine down on the table, her palm hit the spoon resting on the saucer, which like a catapult launched the little cookie it was cradling. The cookie away, the spoon bellyflopped onto the table with a resounding clang. Not to be outdone, the proceeding glasses of water landed with equivalent gusto.

5. At the bakery
Only within the last year have I started to frequent one of the best bakeries in Berlin, and it's two minutes on foot from my door. I had always written off Salute as a bakery backwater because it's squished into a haven for 3 a.m. drunks, opposite the gritty underground station.

Turns out, Salute is fantastic whether inebriated or sober because it is one of only two Berlin bakeries I know of that both bakes everything fresh, from scratch on premises, and is open 24/7. It's Turkish, meaning you get all those tasty regional treats like baklava, poppy seed cookies, halva products and ridiculously creamy cakes that will make you diabetic just looking at them.

You also get wonderfully disinterested service from a rotating crop of work-weary women who, I'm guessing, are all one way or another related.

This is what I was expecting when I stopped in one rainy morning to bring breakfast treats for my student and me to munch on during our lesson. However, none of the dour women were present, taking their place a bright-faced man who could pass for my grandpa if my grandpa were Turkish and a baker. (For the record, he is neither.)

The guy was all smiles. And very chatty, cheerfully picking out the choicest croissants, wholegrain rolls, and spinach and cheese böreks to give me. I prepared to pay, but looked up from my wallet when he said, "This is for you," holding out a warm sugar cookie for me to take.

Americans reading this might not see the uniqueness of throwing in a little something for free. But, man, this is Berlin. You get what you pay for and not one bit extra. You, the customer, should feel lucky to be served at all.

Gladly, I took the cookie, exchanging it with what I owed for the rest. "And this is for you," I poked back, gathering up my things and heading out the door, the freshly baked treat melting in my mouth.

British food. Made by Americans. Eaten by Germans.

2011-11-06T15:05:00.001+01:00

Okay, the headline isn't entirely accurate. Naturally, a Berlin restaurant specializing in British food is going to cater to more than just Germans. Given it's prime location on Mehringdamm in Kreuzberg, Americans, Spanish and, of course, homesick Britons are all coming in for their afternoon tea. And at least one of the cooks at least sounded British.

Nevertheless, East London (more prominently dubbed "God save Brit food") opened over the summer with little pomp and circumstance, adding itself to the handful of British specialty shops in Berlin that, against all rational convention, demonstrate UK culture can be trendy (perhaps a lingering effect of the royal wedding).

Kai and I tried it out recently, and the opinion was mixed. On one hand, East London serves up hearty British staples like bangers & mash, full English breakfast and (of course) fish & chips at reasonable prices. We shared a pot pie that was atypically vegetarian and healthily portioned, including a side salad.

Yet despite the colorful mix of vegetables, dense potato "crust", and layer of melted cheddar, the bottom was rather watery and I found the dish overall needing heavy doses of salt and malt vinegar. Generally speaking, those are negatives in my mind, though I suppose soggy veggies and blandness could be the whole point of serving authentic British food.

The atmosphere was what was really lacking, however. The brick interior had a rather generic feel, and was almost completely void of decoration. Aside from a small corner selling British treats such as Cadbury chocolate and Newcastle Ale (at more than 4€ a bottle!), there wasn't much British about it. The menu made no effort to explain what British food is, how their sausage is different from Germans' wurst or why, for example, anyone on earth would ever want to eat pudding.

If I'm going to eat somewhere that exists for the sole purpose of showcasing a particular ethnic or national specialty, I want to know the reasons for its specialness. (I don't mean this to apply to the Indian and Thai restaurants that exist on every-other corner.) If Britain is your brand, sell it. I want photos of famous British people on the walls, funny quotes about British ways in the menu, and smatterings of British humor, trivia and cultural kitsch to accompany the food.

Don't just give me a taste of British food. Give me a taste of Britain. Fill my stomach with food, but also fill my brain with tidbits.

That could be asking too much, so let's refocus on the waitstaff. There were two during our visit, a spright and portly fellow taking and bringing the orders, and a pretty, young woman behind the counter on the espresso machine and at the cash register. Both clearly American, which definitely stole some of the restaurant's street cred, regardless if the cooks in the back were genuinely of the Queen's domain.

Service and friendliness were not an issue here. Nevertheless, something was unsettling. It may be arbitrary, and certainly none of my business or concern, but given that the typical wayward American scraping by as a waiter in Berlin is more than half the man's age (indeed, his colleague was half his age, and at a higher position), you've got to wonder what his story is.

More to the point, and unlike the other, he couldn't speak German. Not a word. You might be able to get away with that working in a British restaurant if you're actually British, but as an American, your only security is trusting that most Germans can't tell the difference.

The value of speaking -- at least, attempting to speak, and at the very least, showing humility that you can't speak -- the language of the country you're in, especially if your work requires regular interaction with native speakers of that language, should be obvious. If not, what unfolded as Kai and I were on our way out should make it so.

Two Germans had come in looking for coffee and cake, a traditional afternoon habit for many Germans I've grown quite fond of. What they wanted was simple: two lattes and two slices of different cakes.

What should have been a painless order proceeded to take a couple repeats, confirmations and reconfirmations, hand signs, physically pointing to what they wanted and, ultimately, the customers switching to English to get the deal done.

It was a cringing exchange to overhear. Not only the absence of British charm and lack of German awareness, but a violation of the spirit of American customer service, that is, the customer is always right. At the very least, he shouldn't have forsaken that.

You can find East London in Kreuzberg at Mehringdamm 33. I give it a rating of 2 whippersnappers out of 5 on the revered knickerbocker scale.

Pictures of the day: Görlitzer gets a makeover

2011-11-05T10:52:00.003+01:00

What is going on in Görlitzer, the beloved and decrepit park at the end of my street? Surely, Berlin officials know it's not worthy of what precious few funds this "poor but sexy" city has to play with.

Nonetheless, since the summer, they've actually been taking care of the place. It's been watered regularly. The grass has been cut and edged. The leaves raked. The trees trimmed. The trash collected. Who knew the fountains were actually connected to water.

Yes, Görlitzer is a strange and wonderful place. A railway station before the War, now a Kreuzberg park that accurately reflects its neighborhood of öko-moms, starving artists, Turkish grillers, cafe dwellers and immigrant drug dealers. There's even a petting zoo.

If, after a rain storm, the dirt paths aren't a Noah's flood, and if, by August, the grass isn't a trash-strewn dustbowl, something's wrong. So you can imagine the collective surprise when a construction crew came out this summer to replace the ankle-twisting stones of the main, north-south path with smooth, black pavement.

Which was nice, but it still left the main, east-west path, which connects my street to busy Wienerstr. on the other side, untouched. How nice it would be if they did to east-west what they had done to north-south.

I was distracted by this very thought the other night as I biked into the park to get across it, causing me to nearly run right into the mostly unseen and wholly unexpected chain-link fence cordoning off the east-west path. In the daylight the next morning, I could see the full nature of the project.

Any more motivation, and the next project may be picking up the dog shit off the sidewalks.

Picture of the day: Bearded billygoats in Berlin

2011-11-03T13:50:00.002+01:00

Sunshine and plenty of time convinced me to take a meandering route from work this morning. I find doing so always brings me to discover something new in or about Berlin. In this case, it's grazing billygoats (species check?) in an open patch of prime city real estate. You can find these organic lawnmowers on Alte Jakobstr., directly behind the Jewish Museum.

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