The Evil Neighbour - Or How I Learned to Stop Loving, and Hate the Girl Next Door

The cold war was (from what I have read, heard and seen in overly prevalent postcard photos) really something pretty dysmal to live through, if you were anywhere near the influence of mother Russia, or caught between the trade embargoes, tension and lack of internet, then you had no choice but to sit back hopelessly and watch the super powers scratch at each other until they both gave up.

A similar relationship exists between myself and my neighbour. A sour, bitter husk of a woman evidently deprived of zygomaticus major or any connected muscle tissues at birth. Every greeting is met with a grunt, and normal formalities are swept away in a muddy stream of silence.

Perhaps she's so eternally noxious because mail that cannot be delivered to the rightful recipient is always dropped in her jagged talons - yet then I remembered the only reason she receives this mail is because the woman in the hall opposite who usually does so is on holiday.

Normally not a bitter man, I took the first few encounters with a nonchalant laugh and a flick of my hair (this recounting may be falsified), but naturally, after a few run-ins and not being able to squeeze even a smirk from the creature, I did what I usually do when someone rubs me the wrong way; and continued being nice.

It was not until today that this changed, when I rang the doorbell to collect a package on my way to work, and was greeted with an eye at the keyhole and then retreating footsteps, followed by music in the apartment behind the door being turned up. It was this moment when I decided to retrieve my white enmity gloves from storage - where I swore I would leave them - and begin a mini-cold war of my own.

It's an experiment, per se, to see if her icy demeanor and excecutioner-style unkindness is actually unintentional, or whether she truly is Jadis, Queen of Charn and has no capacity for warmth.

I will ring her doorbell once more on the way home, and when she answers, I too will stare at her with ursine bluntness, my usual smile vacant, my greeting consisting of just three - possibly four syllables (everything in German requires at least double what one normally uses in English), and then I will take my mail, thank her (omitting the standard "kindly" and "very much" - sure to come as a shock) - after which I will turn and leave without waiting for her to close the door.

Before you cry "genius", and "she can't help but become infuriated" I will just say, yes, I know. Surely, my victory lies close.

Jimzip :D

Poetry Under the Moonlight

Two things I must admit; I'm not much of a fan of poetry, and I don't like Shakespeare.

Now that you've returned from writing me angry emails, I must say that despite my dislike of these two 'genres', I can still be lured in every once in a while by something excellent. There are of course passages in Shakespeare works that really do catch my attention, and though many people that know me will attest to my frequent rants involving the words 'Seamus Heaney' and 'bollocks', sometimes poetry can strike me. His works for example, are frequently beautiful and very visual, but to me, the only difference between 'short story' and 'poetry' is that the latter has rudely cracked sentences into a jumbled pile of imporoperly capitalised words.

I was surprised yesterday evening then, when I experienced something that gave me a subtle appreciation for poetry when it is read aloud. Perhaps it was the beer, which I don't usually drink, or the scene itself: two strangers, two berliner friends, and myself standing in a ring on the sidewalk after a pleasant evening of karaoke and under the clear, starry sky - but while chatting away to my comrades we were approached by a young man, his shaggy hair and attire befitting of his opening line.

"Hi guys, I'm a poet. Can I recite something of mine to you all?"

Though one of our party was too drunk to realise what was happening and turned away, the rest of us agreed. And so the recitation began.

Again, I must stress the cynic in me towards poetry here, but before I noticed it, in fact within two lines, this young poet somehow managed to do something amazing. He not only recited his work with the emotion and conviction of an artist, but he actually inspired me. No, I'm not going to go and start writing poetry. I still think it's the dung-encrusted sole on the foot of literature, but what I experienced was something highly romanticised. In my head, it conjured imagery of what I imagine many european cities may have been like at the turn of the last century. Some hidden, creative heart beating under the cobblestones by night. Passionate, talented young artists so excited by their work that they want to share it with anyone who will listen, even if that means meeting strangers on the streets under the moonlight to do so.

Now, given that he himself was so drunk that the poem dropped off half way through, I can't say that the ending was excellent, but this fellow put himself on the line and even though he failed in one way, he has no idea how successful he was in another. His story was nothing new; it was the same old garp about a woman loved and lost - but instead, what I saw was his love of words, and this I found far more interesting. It wasn't the subject, but the presentation - his excitement in sharing what he had created, that came across. He played with imagery, and sound, and subtlety, and used the garp story to create something far more alluring, and he loved every second of it.

To me, this small moment added something to Berlin, another angle that was really exciting and interesting, and I realised later that perhaps to truly inspire others, the subject is almost irrelevant - all one really needs to do is be passionate enough.

Jimzip

Thefty Monsters & Freedom

To me, the theft of my bike last week was as a deathknell of sorts - at least to my stint in Vancouver. It gave me an odd sense of closure to a few stressful months back in the city I came to know so well. Being there slap in the middle of winter did not help the post-theft downer much either.

I often remark that no matter where I am in the world, my three most important possessions (other than essentials like wallet and clothing) are without doubt my laptop, my camera and my bike. In particular, it is because these three items give me what I consider almost total freedom. They allow me to be spontaneous, and they let me stay professionally, creatively and physically active wherever I end up, and that is something I value greatly.

Despite what you'll often hear, it is amazingly liberating to have no car. I have continuously been told throughout my life how useful a licence would be, and how much I would love the freedom a car provides. True, possibly. Yet in an ironic twiddle, I actually feel that I have been able to do things and reach places no driver can without one. I'm certain that I have traveled and explored places more intimately by bike and on foot than I ever could have in a vehicle. The ability to swing down a sidestreet or through a park, to swerve onto the sidewalk, lock it up wherever you feel works, or hop off a any moment is truly a great feeling. With a backpack and a bottle of water on hand, I guess it's just a question of which street to pick today. Also it's cheap.

When my bike disappeared therefore, I felt like I had been slapped. It was something of a rude reminder that in the city with such incredible beauty and such great people, there is ever that undercurrent of something lurking just underneath the veneer. Having gone through multiple thefts here (some by my own design, but most just plain bad luck) I wasn't really too perturbed. In truth, the reaction when I came upon the vacant spot in the bike rack was closer to a short, accepting nod of the head and 'huh' than shock.

Despite having most of my possessions re-distributed among the city's lesser-fortunate though, I must say I certainly still love Vancouver. Some of my best friends are here, and I hope to return often - but perhaps next time I'll just come back in the summer ... the sun, sea, and fun are enough to tear any unpleasantness far into the horizon.

For now, a ticket is booked for me back to Europe, and Berlin, where a new bike and more exploring awaits.

Jimzip