The door is shut, locked, and bolted. These are serious, substantial bolts, and the door does not give at all when I push lightly against it. A crumpled sheet of paper hangs by a single thread of sticky-tape on the wall, and flutters in the wind, seeking escape. I slip my gloves off and reach down to spread it against the door, between the bolts. “Royal crypt closed. Reason: because of technical reason.”

This is disappointing. I have walked for two hours up the winding, narrow, city streets to get here and an underground room full of ancient, discoloured bones would have really rounded out the experience. Besides, I could use a break from the monotony of shop after shop peddling creepy wooden puppets to unsuspecting tourists. A voice behind me exclaims, “Technical reason?” as I’m struggling to coordinate fingers with the appropriate glove holes. He is tall, thin, and undeniably German.

“Yeah, perhaps they have to dust the skulls. Hi, Dan” and I offer my glove, half-filled with fingers, to shake. He nods, ignores the hand, and pulls out a weathered guide-book. I survey my options. Across the valley there is a fort, squat, blackened, and closed. I’ve heard you can bribe the guards to look the other way, allowing you to work your way up the mountain, past the television tower to the peak. Here, you can take advantage of the gypsies selling overpriced cans of cheap imported beer, and watch the sun dip into the smog.

“It’s freezing, and if I hear another American complain about pickpockets I’m going to steal their wallets myself. Do you want to grab a drink?” He nods his assent, and we duck into an alley and walk until we find a hole in the wall that appears to be part of a workshop that is servicing the maroon city trams. The owner glances at us for a second as we enter, cigarette dangling from his mouth, and points us to a series of upturned crates in the corner. We sit, and he brings us two tankards of beer without question or explanation. I reach for my wallet and he shakes his head. “Finish,” and nods toward the door.

The German is Marcus and after a beer he explains to me the complex process of obtaining high-school tenure in the German system, and the impact it has on academia. How it’s a better option than most universities because of the twenty days of leave a year. He begins to explain his research, and then backs off, thinking I will lose interest. But I am fascinated, and I tell him so.

“Glial cells, you know these? Cells in the brain that support, uh, thinking cells. Not like neurons, but important still. I investigate the effect on sclerosis. I think, maybe twenty years we can map it properly, work it out, map it. Reverse effects maybe. Yes. It’s funny, you know. Germans and Americans have a very different perspective when it comes to this research. Even under President Bush there was funding for stem cells, cell research but in Germany it is impossible, illegal. I think we worry a lot about the past. The Nazis, yes. Anything with genetic selection, genetic determination, and the government is involved, regulating, controlling. So, we cannot do the stem cells. But we look elsewhere. There are only two countries who can make microscopes, Japanese and the Germans. This is for a reason.”

As I begin to talk about elevator factories in the fields beside the shinkansen, my phone buzzes in my pocket with a message from the other side of the planet. It is two things: short, and unexpected. I hit reply, and pause for a second while I consider what I want to say, and how I want to phrase it. I write that it’s a leading question. It is, I think, but I’m not entirely sure who is leading whom.

I’m continually perplexed at my ability to turn simple situations into the impossible. And how often it feels like stacking card against card against card. Licking your thumb, then running it slowly down the outside edge to feel for tiny imperfections. This is how relationships are built, feeling gingerly for weaknesses in the structure, tensing and teasing, before pushing ahead because it feels right. Hoping the imperfections mesh and create strength, hoping that the moment of fragility happens during a lull in the wind, before it all blows away.

Marcus has to catch a train, and I wind my way back through the streets alone, admiring the sleet as the droplets flick against the glass and coalesce. I let myself in the back door and climb down to the basement. This used to be a chapel once, and the brickwork is still perfectly clear in its purpose. But they are talking about sex again, and the mood is light. I ease myself into a chair and grin at the bar girl as she puts on the Neutral Milk Hotel album we were arguing about last night. There is solidarity to be found with strangers, and comfort from those who do not know you.

She is from Canada, and she leans against the altar as she tells a story of the cold, and the night.

So wake up run your lips across your fingers till you find
Some scent of yourself that you can hold up high
To remind yourself that you didn’t die
On a day that was so crappy whole and happy you’re alive

Posted in Mwah on Thursday February 26, 2009.

« Previous: The Sandwich of Knowledge | Next: Everybody in the place »

Related Posts

Tips for Young Players
My Year in Cities 2011
It's Because of China
Five reasons the Kindle is the best travel tool. Ever.
Festina lente