Letter from France 21

February 18, 1992

 

born: Roy Cohn 1927

died: Emperor Joseph II 1790

1915—Panama Pacific Exposition opens in San Francisco

 

The theme for this one is waiting and learning. I have joined a huge migration of eastern Europeans moving west. In the midst of political upheaval and geographic Peek-A-Border I am one small voice saying, "Excuse me, can I just kind of live here?" In other words, I have been spending a lot of time in lines. To get a visa one has to go to the Auslandspolizei; they deal with foreigners. Today's global realignments make it seem to many people that the grass is always grüner in Berlin, and this office is very understaffed. At 4 am people begin waiting outside in the winter dark in the hope that they may get a number when the building opens at 7:30 am. If you are lucky enough to get a number for that day, you get to wait inside for several more hours to explain to someone what you want. On my first attempt I was not lucky. After waiting outside for ninety minutes I was told that people whose last names begin with P -Z can go home; they already had enough of that alphabet for the day.

 

Think of any refugee movie and you can get a sense of how we looked. Lara's Theme from Doctor Zhivago kept running through my head. On my second attempt—after two hours outside—I received a number. Several more hours and I finally got two minutes to explain what I wanted (resident permit) and receive the appropriate form. Five minutes was ample for filling out the form and thirty seconds to hand it in. Then another few hours to have someone tell me I have a temporary, ninety-day visa in which to get everything in order. The things they are asking me to get in order are mutually exclusive, but that is part of the fun. Wanting to see proof that I am working in Berlin makes sense, but at the same time asking to show sufficient income outside of Germany so that I don't have to work seems a bit unnecessary. Stamping my passport with a notice prohibiting me from working here just seems to add to the challenge. My employer told me that I was not allowed to tell the authorities I already am working. Halftime score: I'm down 40 DM and must return in April with my scavenger hunt for forms completed. Tip: Any American entering Germany automatically gets a 90 day visa for free if they just don't tell anyone official about it.

 

Not long after this I enrolled in a German class at the Volkshochshule, a citywide adult-education program. Again, the first attempt was a no-go; I was fifteen minutes late and they were not handing out anymore numbers to enroll people. Early, not bright, the next morning at a different Volkshochschule it was the long, dark, outside winter wait for the building to open at eight and get a number. Once inside another several hours to actually talk with someone and get enrolled in a German class. It's great. Those dark, huddled masses I've been freezing with have turned into the most interesting, international, and unintelligible folk in Berlin.

 

Five days a week (from nine 'til noon) of German surrounded by foreigners all with a worse accent than me is both elevating and humbling. Except for my feeble American pronunication of the letter r I sound like Goethe compared to the Russian, Turkish, and Greek accents of my classmates. I was quite depressed about my wimpy, non-rolling rs for a while. When in need of a quick, self-esteem pick me up I sit next to the student from China and listen to him try to pronounce any type of r at all, forget the rich, rolling ones that I struggle with. So far I have heard him come up with b, t, l, d, v and f but am still waiting for anything resembling an r.

 

During the breaks we all struggle to tell our stories in a language that none of us is comfortable with. I don't follow much of the news (no CNN yet) but sense that I am seeing a global picture from my classmates. Two Croatians (one was fighting in the war several months ago) remind me Yugoslavia is no more. The 17-year-old refugee from Bangla Desh who was smuggled across the border from Warsaw for $250 tells me there are still some problems over there. For news of the Americas I check with the Peruvian and Jamaican.

 

Church bells near the school ring at twelve every day. I think it's to warn the locals that we auslanders are once more out and roaming the streets, confusing shopkeepers and bus drivers with our grunts and warped syntax.

 

About once a week the pressure builds up, we all slyly look around at each other, and with a great unverbalized understanding begin trying to build a tower up to the heavens. So far we have not succeeded and—being once more humbled—we re-commence to trying to conjugate verbs and memorize the sex of turnips. We will have the best end-of-term potluck imaginable.

 

Bis später,

 

Todd Strong, Jonglierlehrer

 

Die Etage

Hasenheide 54

1000 Berlin 61

Deutschland

 

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