The place to hang out at night in the district

... and this place is open 24/7!

Washington monument

The good ol' mirror self portrait

"New Century Travels" from Philly to DC

(photo courtesy of New Century Travel)

I was suddenly in a travel mode. Although I didn't come to the states as a tourist or a traveller (but to visit my brother and spend Christmas with my family in DC), being in Philadelphia - on my own for once - made me feel excited and put me in a multi-culti-ethnic-mix-internationale kind of mood. In Reading Terminal Markets I was speaking a little Arabic with a Syrian stall-owner and a Palestinian customer named Yusouf, which gave me a sudden backflash to being in the Middle East this summer; and for a splitsecond two worlds connected in my mind, one of which I knew from having been in Iran and the Yemen: the yearnings, hopes and wishes regarding America that are in the air there and in people's thoughts and dreams, the pride with which a Yemeni boy might say: "My brother lives in the United States!" or the curiousness with which an Iranian student might inquire about living costs in the USA. But when speaking to Yusouf and the Syrian stall-owner, it dawned on me how intricately that world is connected to a world over here in the US: the world of voluntary exile. For that split-second I felt like I got a glimpse of these people's lifes - displaced across the sea in search of hapiness or simply safety, interacting in communities of like-fated others, trying to get to terms with the new culture, society and system - known to them only through movies and stories from friends and relatives who in turn have friends and relatives that have already made the journey to 'Amriikaa' - the place that still manages - after centuries - to be the dream-destination for millions of people around the globe.

I bought a Shewara Kebab from the Syrian man and a 4lbs Rock-fish from a Chinese Fish stall, then walked down to 11th street, where the Chinatown bus to DC left from. Waiting in the "New Century Travel" bus terminal lounge amongst dozens of Chinese people, I was glad to notice one black and one other white person sitting in the hard plastic chairs. I thought it funny that their presence provided some sort of comfort. A white, pale punk girl, naturally dressed in black, knitting a light-blue fuzzy scarf and a mid-twenties black guy, casual-smart look - two people I would usually differentiate myself from. But when everyone started lining up outside for what turned out NOT to be the bus to DC, it became apparent that the non-Chinese would outnumber the Chinese on this journey. It used to be a handful of cool students amongst herds of busy Chinese travellers, but the word has spread and I'm sure the Chinese businessmen who organised these bus-companies to transport their fellow countrymen up & down the east coast don't mind the increase in travellers. It's a 2.5 hours trip from Philly to DC.



As hundreds of lights from other cars, buses and trucks, from factories, bridges and ships pass by the bus window, I finally have some time to myself - crammed around a little grey table with 3 other travellers, two African-American women and one half-Indian looking man. Two different kinds of music can be heard, one from a broad homie with a big FILA basketball jacket sitting at the opposite table and another from somewhere behind me. It provides for a comfortable background sound and out-noises the sounds people make when chewing gum or candy, when falling asleep or when rummaging through their handbags.



I've spent 3 lovely days in Philadelphia - and enjoyed the beautiful company of a good friend I'd been longing to spent some time with. She was a wonderful host - showed me 'her' town and introduced me to her friends and family. My brother lived in Philadelphia the last 3 years and I visited him a few times, but through her I got to see many parts of the town I'd never seen before. For example South street and the area around there... very punk compared to downtown, business- and straight-laced-Philly. And for the first time in my life I didn't just go into a Sex shop, but actually looked at what they sell - eatable underwear, condoms of all shapes, consistencies, colours and tastes, toys - MANY TOYS!! - dildos of all sizes and specifications (incredible to what detail some of them are designed - more than I ever imagined!) and tons of postcards, stickers and fridge magnets with funny, slippery and cheesy lines on them. Quite an experience!
Anyway - back to Philadelphia... - like many of these big cities it has so many sides to it and like America in general - you just cannot but generalise if you want to make any kind of statement about it as a whole. I mean, what can one say about America in general, that is also true for every part of it?

America is huge.
--- that's about it.

As Europeans we like to say America this and America that... but we rarely manage to look at all that this country is - all its greatness, its sucess, its progress and modernity AS WELL AS all its dirty corners, its peculiar backwardness, its incredibly varied population and its economical and political challenges.
The other day I was trying to write a blog about what I've been feeling abou the US lately, but I realised as I was writing, that all I was doing was making rediculous generalisations and stupid statements like "there is a certain lack of history here" - I almost feel embarrased about the arrogance of that statement now and am glad I left it as a draft.
Although (being primed and influenced by European media) I can't help having a generally critical attitude toward the US, one has to acknowledge the acheviement of this country and its people in creating an unparalleled life of abundance & availability and of service & friendliness - ever-present smiles, welcomes & "how're you doing"s, the comfort and pleasure of which is undeniable.

I found 'abundance' a very accurately descriptive word for a certain characteristic of the US. Unfortunately very often aiming for abundance yields excess and thus waste - of course only in some parts of the country, while other parts struggle to identify themselves in their near-3rd-world situation with what the media tells them AMERICA is - "the land of unbounded (or infinite) possibilities", as we refer to it in Germany.

London to Washington

Flight BA 293 – London to Washington

We are chasing the sunset. Ever since we left the British Isles the horizon has been tinted anything from liquid gold to burning embers’ orange with the sun hidden behind the massive engine. A sea of clouds beneath, ever moving, moulding into shapes and patterns, like an ever-changing carpet of thick, fluffy wool, at times tumultuous and roaring, at others calm and like a field of flocking sheep.

I’ve left St.Andrews, yet hardly noticed.
The leaving in itself was so distracting,
and – deprived of sleep – I hardly took it in
as one would do if nimble.
But now, sailing above the clouds, I notice
The absence of restraints on my perceptions,
no box to hold my mind and thoughts.
The freedom lent by total anonymity.
Privacy! – for once.

Although amidst a hundred people,
crammed together in a loathsome place,
I feel at ease and balanced in myself.

And finally there’s time to think and more importantly:
space to do so in and distance from the world.
Noone’s appearance binds me to a certain subject,
Noone will interrupt me, talk to me. Nothing will box my mind.
How badly have I craved this distance and this space!

We almost failed. In our pursuit of the sunset. It’s dark outside. Only barely can I make out the shape of the large wing – a near-black silhouette against the dark blue of the sky behind it. Only if I press my forehead against the cold perspex window can I see on the far right a faint, burning red piece of horizon, cut to the shape of a triangle by wing and engine. “Would you like any tea or coffee?”
Tea, please. Thank you. – More food, milk & sugar, all packaged and wrapped at least twice. ‘All Day Deli’ – hmm, yummy! I turn my hungry gaze outside again and wow! – there’s lights beneath, piercing the pitch dark – a thousand and a thousand more, clustered and scattered, like distant galaxies of stars. One can clearly make out the shore line. We’ve reached North America. Land of the free, home of the brave. The plane turns and we follow the coast line southwards. DC can’t be far now.

There are lights almost everywhere, hardly a patch unlit or uninhabited. And those that are, have snow on them and reflect a dull grey light from its surroundings. It seems like the earth has nearly none of it to itself. There’s Long Island and the Hudson river, wending its way like a black snake through a sea of lights – New York! – the metropolis of all metropoli, the symbol of ‘the West’, of America, of wealth and prosperity.
The street-grids of Manhattan and Brooklyn appear as orderly shelved lights in a warehouse.
As we descend past Philadelphia towards Washington, highways and cars moving on them, suburbs, rows of houses and shopping malls become clearly distinguishable. A specific and somewhat typical feature of American infrastructure passes by again and again, seemingly with increasing fequency: the carpark. Always well-lit, mostly empty - a piece of tarmac desert. Welcome!

The old yellow house

A few nights ago, when I was walking home in the freezing dark of December, I passed by a gate in a wall, that was all too familiar to me. I stopped. I opened the gate and walked in, heading for the big field that opened up behind a few bushes. There used to be a big yellow house here - in between trees and gardens. Big, old trees with wide branches and walled gardens with beautiful, secret corners. The house had many rooms and when I was living in it, I never managed to inhabit all of them properly. It used to look majestic and everyone admired it, when they walked past, but unfortunately it wasn't built on good foundations and was always at risk of crumbling away. Now I think: maybe it looked better than it actually was, but had a great time staying there and didn't think too much about it till towards the end.
While I lived there, although I loved living in it, I always felt that I was going to move out at some point and as time went on, that feeling made it more and more uncomfortable for me to live in it. There was something about the house that wasn't quite right and it had something to do with knowing that it wasn't going to stand forever and was going to come down.
So one day, not so long a go, I did move out. The house was torn down. Now there's just an empty field there with nothing but a few big stones still lying in it.
Ever since I moved out, I just walked past it, with not too heavy a heart because I had always been aware of the inevitability of its eventual fall. But that night I stopped and walked through the gate, onto the frozen grass. There was a room in the middle of the field. The door was open. I watched my white breath in the icy air, hesitated for a bit, then walked in.

It was one of the rooms that I had loved most in the house and it was just there - in all its beauty - everything exactly as it was when I still lived in the house. But that was not it - not only was the room as it had always been, but when you looked out of the windows, you could see the rest of the house. The yellow walls and reddish brown, moss-covered slate roofs were bathing in warm sunlight and everything was as if I'd never moved out. Well, everything except the fact that I knew it was an illusion, a temporary pleasure. I knew I could probably live there for a while, but nonetheless it wasn't real. As much as I wished to ignore it: I knew once I stepped out of that door, I'd be in the cold night again, standing of frozen grass in an empty field. So I stayed for a while and enjoyed my stay, enjoyed the strange familiarity, in fact: the exact likeness of it to how it used to be, but I eventually left, when the first sun rays made the harsh coldness seem less hostile. I stepped on the grass, closed my coat and walked home.
The next few days I didn't spend too much time thinking about it and just got on with my daily business. But today, after class, I walked past there again and in the middle of the field I could see the room again - the door was open, warm light streamed out of it and I heard music (maybe my records) playing on the old 60s record player. I opened the gate and walked onto the field, circling around the room. I was so drawn to it and wanted to step inside, but I knew there was no point. I had to pull myself away from it and drag myself off the field back to the gate. It was somewhat of a struggle, but I knew it was the right thing to do.


I don't go there anymore.