From Berlin with love
In your life there are maybe a handful of moments you will have that will change you; moments in time that you will never have again but will keep with you forever.
My summer in Berlin was one of these experiences, sustained for six weeks. I spent June and July of this summer studying 20th-century German history.
There is a game I play with myself. I always ask myself: how will I remember this day? What detail can I retain that will somehow let me keep this day?
Like the monument to Nazi book-burning in Babelplatz. It’s a slab of glass lain across a remote corner of the square with rows and rows of empty white bookshelves deep beneath the ground. I will always remember the first time I saw it.
All of Berlin was like that, like a glass surface that you could press your face to and see history still living beneath the ground.
I remember the way the city’s past is always present. How you are always confronted by a history that, at its greatest, was formidable and at its most terrible, was utterly horrific. Simultaneously, I have never seen a city so actively engaged in the present, so modern and living—from its richness of theatre and music and fine art scenes, which set a precedent in the world for daring to be provocative.
It is a city that loves being alive. The summers are crowded with festivals that are just excuses to be on the street with the rest of Berlin. From the Christopher Street Day Parade to all the dizzy, dancing madness of the Love Parade, to the open air classical music festival that occurred in Gendarmenmarkt, the square right outside our classroom window. I remember once walking in the rain through Tiergarten Park, huddled under an umbrella with a friend, sheltered by the trees, walking by ponds that looked like something Monet might have dreamt of. And the people, how they welcomed us, how every time I opened a map someone would ask if they could help me, how our first night in Berlin we went to a bar that stayed open late into the night just for us and the owner drove us home when we were finished.
Adventures in Arabia
This summer I had the opportunity to join an archaeological field-school in Madaba, Jordan. The night before my flight I was all geared up to go. I had purchased my 6-inch Marshalltown trowel (the brand for the serious archaeologist) and my Indiana Jones hat. I was ready to conquer the mysteries of antiquity.
But looking like Dr. Jones and finding the Holy Grail are two very different things. As I ordered my third bottle of Becks over the Atlantic I began to notice a stabbing pain in my right side. Deciding it was merely a case of butterflies-in-the-stomach, I put it out of my mind and continued on.
We touched down in the Jordanian capital of Amman at 3 a.m. and drove to our houses in the town of Madaba. Our team consisted of 35 people, primarily from U of T, but also specialists from England and the United States.
Our daily routine was pretty hectic. We began by peeling ourselves out of bed at 5 a.m. and attempting to stomach one more Nutella-drenched pita for breakfast. We then trudged up the tell (an Arabic term for a mound-shaped archaeological site) where our squares were located, and proceeded to excavate until 1 p.m. We then beat a hasty retreat out of the sun and back to the houses for a quick shower and lunch. Lab time followed from four until six, and then some freedom for the rest of the night. The evenings consisted mostly of drinking the local hooch known as Arak and hanging with our new Arab friends.
That pain I first felt on the plane turned out to be a ruptured appendix. My colleagues in Madaba realized something was wrong and took me to the hospital.
I would love to be able to tell you I was in some shack in the middle of the desert, but the facilities in Amman were stellar. I almost felt like I was in Toronto, except for the television. The only English channel was CNN World and let me tell you, Larry King Live three times a day is enough to rupture any appendix. I was laid up for six days and then missed another two weeks of excavation when I returned to Madaba. I did get back to work eventually, though.
On an average week we’d work on site for six days, but on that blessed Saturday off we would venture out on field-trips all over Jordan. We floated and bobbed in the Dead Sea, blasted through the desert sands of Wadi Rum in the backs of pick-up trucks, and visited the spectacular sandstone structures of Petra (you’ll remember them from the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade). But it was the cultural experience that made the trip for me. I’ve never met a warmer or more hospitable culture in my entire life.
To live and learn in Hong Kong
I never really fancied myself a village hick, let alone one from rural China. But there I was in Guangzhou, China, being asked in Cantonese by one of the more friendly locals, “So…how long have you been gone for?”
In a not-so-subtle aside, my friend whispered, “She means, how long ago did you leave your village?”
“Oh,” I thought.
There I was, the quintessential tourist with a camera dangling from my neck, trying to fathom how a homegrown Canadian girl could be mistaken for someone born and raised in southern China. It’s a question usually reserved for those who leave their village home in pursuit of a better life in a “big city” like Guangzhou. Turns out my accent gave me away.
I’ve always known that my Cantonese isn’t perfect, but I had assumed that I spoke with a Canadian accent. As it turns out, my heritage precedes me. Having grown up in a household speaking a little-known dialect called ToiSan, I actually speak Cantonese with a ToiSan accent, a dialect common to small villages in and around Guangzhou.
Nearly half of our classes were field trips, which varied from travel to Macau to a walk through the local cemetery. Consider also that classes are only Monday to Thursday each week, mornings only, and you can understand how much time and energy was spent exploring.
The opportunities to learn are endless. The insights and revelations I gained range from the trivial to those that challenge your self-perception and broaden your understanding of the people around you. Every day brought new discoveries. These included questioning why eight-digit telephone numbers are so difficult to memorize, as well as the realization that I really hate being illiterate. (One month of ordering food by having a friend read the daily specials to you or hoping that the menu translations are accurate gets a little frustrating.)
Subsequently, I believe I finally understand just how difficult it must have been for my parents to immigrate to Canada so many years ago, knowing very little English, at a time when the Chinese community was relatively small.
When in Siena…
When February came around last year, I realized it was time to start planning my summer. I knew I wanted to travel, earn course credit and spend some time in Canada to relax with old friends. I also knew that my chances of satisfying all these desires simultaneously were practically nonexistent.
Within a day of reading about the five-week Woodsworth College International Summer Program in Siena, Italy, I made a call home to tell my family I was going to spend a summer abroad.
The program and classes were designed so we had time to travel throughout the country. My class (Professor Bartlett’s VIC 240, The Civilization of Renaissance Europe) traveled to Florence twice and had overnight stays in Rome and Venice.
In just over a month, I saw the ruins of Old Pompeii, the Coliseum of Rome, and the Doge’s Palace in Venice. My friends and I shared bottles of red wine, sitting on the steps of Florence’s Duomo and on a bridge overlooking a Venetian canal. (Relaxing with a glass of red wine at any time and in any place is just one of the Italian stereotypes that turned out to be true.)
Despite the good times I had travelling, my best memories are from Siena. The transition to a different culture was made easier by so many of the Sienese citizens; they lived up to the stereotype of being friendly and casual, especially when we students said (in broken Italian) things like, “I’m Canadian,” or, “I’m not a tourist, I’m studying at the university.”
I remember being packed into the campo (Siena’s main piazza, or square) for four hours with tens of thousands of other spectators awaiting the Palio (a centuries-old tradition centred around a two-minute horse race). The Palio was packed with more cultural significance and energy than I could possibly have imagined. Though the main event itself was an incredible experience, I was even more amazed to see men and women of all ages crying when their horse lost and, conversely, to see a victory parade with hundreds of participants carrying on for several weeks.
I wish I could relive my five weeks in Siena. Even the adventures (like travelling for hours cramped into the boarding compartment of a train, caught between a marijuana smoke-filled bathroom and an external door that wouldn’t quite open and wouldn’t quite close) are now part of my collection of good memories. Though I miss the relaxing aura that pervaded Siena, having pizza and wine for almost every meal, and waking up to the picturesque view from the residence I lived in, I know that every single thing I miss is just one more reason to return as soon as possible.
