The Many Faces of Mika

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The Sounds of the Sea

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This is pretty much the only way she gets to sleep, swinging and listening to the sounds of waves crashing…

Mika is Here!

For those still reading this blog, it will now change form radically from a chronicle of our travels and fun in Berlin to a chance to post periodic pictures and video of this young lady.

Mika Sonja Beckerman (that’s Mee-ka Son-ya) was born on October 9 at 3:16 in the morning. She weighed 7 pounds 11 ounces and was twenty inches long. She was pink and screaming and, as you can see from above–in a picture taken hours after she came into the world–had a beautiful head of hair (with, strangely, blond highlights).

For more photos of her first week, click on the flickr link to the side or go here.

Goodbye Berlin

So we turned out not to be the best of bloggers. Especially in the last few months when life here began to normalize, we just felt less and less compelled to record here. We’d like to think this speaks well of us–or maybe it just means that we’re old and don’t know how to live a virtual life. But that’s what happened. And now all our recent adventures (to Poland, Denmark, and Croatia, among other places) have gone unblogged. And, tomorrow morning, we finally depart Berlin.

So much of what made our life here wonderful never really made it onto this site or even into our conversations with friends and family. This year felt, more than anything else, like a long bicycle ride (and in fact, we spent much of it on bicycles), a time of gliding through, observing, not stopping to analyze and classify, but just moving in and out of new situations that we would have never encountered in our New York lives. The gliding part was disorienting at times. But it was a nice break from a life that can otherwise feel very concentrated, too focused—the life we return to tomorrow. We sat for hours in cafes, rode around the city, read a lot, spent a lot of our evening with an international group of people that we also might never have befriended back home.

We’ll keep on writing here for the three people who are actually reading. Tomorrow new adventures start, ones that will have less to do with adjusting to new places than with the search for stability at home. And, of course, our little struggle to make room in this world for one more luftmensch.

– Debbie and Gal

Continental Rift

My latest review for Bookforum:

Christopher Caldwell claims Reflections on the Revolution in Europe is not a lecture to Europeans about how to handle their Islam problem. But his analysis leaves room for only one conclusion. White Europeans need to start fighting fire with fire, shed their exalted notions of multiculturalism and human rights, find religion and civilizational purpose, and, for good measure, dig back a few centuries to rediscover arranged marriage so they can start matching immigrants baby for baby. They might also consider sending all those Muslims—referred to occasionally as “invaders” and colonizers—back where they came from. Otherwise, in no time, Europe will cease to exist. Caldwell, an editor at the Weekly Standard, doesn’t admit any other possible outcome for the battle between the two caricatures he draws. When in one corner you have “an insecure, malleable, relativistic culture” and in the other a “culture that is anchored, confident, and strengthened by common doctrines,” which would you put your money on?

Preggers in Prenzlauerberg

I didn’t think I was one of those girls. But then suddenly there I was, with seven German women in a sunny yoga studio, chanting “om” and trying to suck in air through a curled up tongue. I wasn’t sure how this was going to help my unborn child, or my aching back for that matter. But I went along with it. I sucked in air. I rolled around on the floor and put my feet up on the wall. I lay down obediently cradling a pillow when I was instructed to. And then, when the teacher rang a bell, we all slowly emerged from our post-yoga slumber. I seemed to be the youngest and least pregnant woman in the room. Reason enough to go back. At 33, I don’t really expect to be on the young-side, but I suppose my neighborhood here is like any well-to-do gentrified one around the Western world where women put careers first and babies later. Although considering that nobody in Berlin seems to have a career, I wonder why these women waited so long. Either way, I’ll be there every week

– Debbie

Why We May Have to Move to France Next

A new report from the OECD just affirmed what we’ve always known:

French people spend more time eating and sleeping than the habitants of any other highly developed country, according to a report published Monday by the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development. The French sleep an average of nine hours every night, the report said. That is about 30 minutes longer than the average American and over an hour longer than the Japanese and Koreans. The O.E.C.D. study, based on a survey of 18 member countries, also shows that the French spend more than two hours a day eating, twice the time spent by people in Mexico, Canada and the United States.

May Day Mayhem

Yesterday we experienced, within a few hours, both the quiet ego and the messy id of the German character (the folks above would be the id part).

In the morning we drove with German some friends about a half hour south of Berlin to Beelitz a farming village that is well known for its white asparagus. Spargel, as it’s known here, is a seasonal phenomenon that is feted in much the same way that the yearly Beaujolais is in Paris. Stores will announce the fresh shipments, restaurants prepare special dishes, and everyone seems to be talking about how funny their pee smells. In any case, we decided to visit the source. It was a sleepy town. We walked for an hour under a fierce sun to take a look at an unimpressive lake. And then we sat down to the main event:

It was…okay. Not quite the delicacy we imagined. Later that day, though, another German friend informed us that we had not really had the real spargel experience. First, because we hadn’t eaten nearly enough. And second, because spargel should only be eaten with melted butter and not the hollandais sauce that was poured over ours. So, it seems, we’ll have to try again.

When we returned to Berlin, May Day was in full effect. We’d been reading for weeks about how the Berlin police had been preparing for riots–the papers actually called them the “traditional” May 1st riots. For weeks, gangs of black-clad extreme leftists have been setting expensive cars on fire all over the city. Almost 6,000 riot police were expected.

We made our way through Kreuzberg. It looked like a massive street fair with more broken glass, drunks, screaming anarchists, and thumping rave music than I’ve ever experienced. It was a struggle just to make it down a block. We also saw loads of riot police with their helmets and sticks. The political aspect of the day seemed lost on me. The kids causing trouble–and they did, later in the day, looting, breaking windows, hurling stones at the cops–were just looking for an excuse to fuck shit up. It was funny today to read newspaper articles talking about the demonstrations as reflections of the economic crisis. Here in Berlin, it’s been hardly felt. What summed up the day best were the kids throwing beer bottles at the sidewalk near the Skalitzer U-Bahn stop and loudly screaming along to the Beastie Boys: “You’ve got to fight for your right to party!”

Here’s a little video of the street scene, which only begins to capture a bit of the buzzy energy. We have some photos on the flickr as well.

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– Gal

Baby Daddy

Germans don’t make babies. It’s a national epidemic. In order to help encourage young couples to do the deed, the German government now offers paternal leave giving parents a whopping 14-months off from work after squeezing out a wee one. In Berlin, and especially in our neighborhood, fathers are happily taking on the role of full-time mommy and daddy.

Although some of them feel a little alienated from the mommy culture, so they’ve created a Father’s Center where dads can drink coffee, talk sports, and bounce little baby Borris on the their knee.
Here’s a radio piece I did for Deutsche Welle

For some visuals check out this video (in German).

-Debbie

An Israeli, a German and a Palestinian Walk Into a Theater…

My latest review in the Forward.

A strange three-act drama is played out here in Germany with unsettling regularity.

Some public figure — usually a politician — will make a comparison between the present-day and Nazi Germany. I’ll grab the first example that comes to mind. Last year, a week before the 70th anniversary of Kristallnacht, a well-known German economist from Munich, Hans-Werner Sinn, made the mistake of comparing the scapegoating of bank managers for the unfolding financial crisis to the treatment of Jews in 1930s Germany. “Back then, it hit the Jews in Germany; today, it’s the managers,” he said. “In every crisis, people look for culprits, for someone to blame.” Act Two quickly commenced: contrition. This act usually stars the leadership of the German-Jewish community, whose job description, as far as I can tell, mostly involves being an address for apologies for idiotic Nazi comparisons made by otherwise unassuming Germans. “I apologize to the Jewish community and take back the comparison,” Sinn announced. The final act is the national conversation, which lasts roughly a week. Talk shows and magazines feature round-table discussions about the state of antisemitism and the politics of memory. And then it’s over, to be repeated next time someone inadvertently sticks a swastika in his mouth.

It can be an absurd spectacle. But maybe that’s why I laughed so much — an uncomfortable giggle at first, which ripened into something louder — when an oafish, red-bearded German apologized to me from the stage the other night in the first moments of a new play, “Third Generation,” now in performance at Berlin’s famed Schaubühne (in German, English, Hebrew and Arabic, with English supertitles). Niels, as he introduced himself, just wanted to have a word with us before the show started. “Are there any Jews out there?” he asked in German. A few sheepishly raised their hands. “In the name of the German people,” he said, hand over heart, “I apologize.” He was only getting started. “Any gypsies in the audience?” No one responded. “Well, they must be on the way.” More nervous giggles. Homosexuals? Sorry. How about Turkish emigrants? He felt terrible for how the government had treated them in the 1990s. As he apologized, the rest of the cast — which, we already know from the program, consisted of an equal number of Israelis, Germans and Palestinians — made its way onto the bare stage behind him. “Oh, here’s Ishay,” Niels said suddenly, turning to one of the Israeli actors. “To you, Ishay, I would like to personally apologize. Your grandfather was electrocuted on the gate of the Sachsenhausen concentration camp. My apologies. I’m very sorry.” Ishay emitted an awkward, “Forget about it!” and a relieved smile spread across Niels’s face. “If only it was always so easy,” he told the now hysterical audience.