Ab heute hat auch Hamburg sein Velib’-System. 68 Fahrradstationen gibt es, alle in und um die Innenstadt, die ersten 30 Min Fahrradfahren sind kostenlos, danach vier Cent pro Minute. (Ab über einer Stunde werdens dann schon 8 Cent pro Min).
Nervig, man kann nicht wirklich aus dem Innenstadt-Feld raus (die Radstationen, wo man die Räder bekommt und abstellen muss, sind alle schön nah einmal um die Alster, wer, den man kennt, wohnt da schon?). Da ist dann das gute alte Deutsche Bahn Call a Bike praktischer (wenn auch mit 8 Cent/Min teurer). Das kann man nämlich überall (im Innenstadtraum) abstellen – wie auf dem Foto hier (in Berlin, Kreuzberg).

Ach wie gut, dass ich mein eigenes Rad hab – für Hamburg lohnt sichs auf jeden. 35 Euro Schanzen-Flohmarkt Investition für 18 Gänge. Ca roule.

Today would have been Che Guevara’s 81st birthday. For this occasion, a Hamburg club wanted to throw a big party: The club, located on a ship, wanted to re-enact the „Granma“ trip, on which 82 revolutionaries, among them the Castro brothers and Che Guevara, set out in 1956 for Cuba. (The revolutionary invasion, however, failed – almost everybody was killed and the 12 survivors fled into the mountains and spent the next three years fighting for the revolution.)

The Hamburg club had it all planned out, for 8 Euro cover, 82 people would have boarded the boat – Che Guevara would have been picked by lottery – and they would have set out on the river Elbe in the direction of the North Sea. Cuban cigars, Cuba libre and of course a birthday cake would have been on board – of which also the 70 supposed to have died were to have their share.

Then, news was out, the trip was cancelled. Apparently, it was not possible to find 82 people in Hamburg willing to fight the entire Sunday nite for the Cuban revolution – and to pay 8 Euro for it. So no birthday party for Che. What would Cubans think if they heard about the birthday party worries of the Hamburg club scene?

http://timesreader.nytimes.com/timesreader/index.html?campaignId=34W8F

Now if that thing adds some more gimmicks so I can work with the news – highlight stuff, scrible comments into articles, cut them out and archive them or interact with a community via comments etc – I might actually for the first time in years subscribe again to a daily newspaper.

Hmm, I might give it a shot next week. This is kinda cool.

(Update: nope. I did not give it a shot. Its 3 Dollars Something and the Nytimes Website with the same content is for free. Sorry.)

It was a friend from school days with whom I had lost contact a while ago, on non-amicable terms. We hadn’t gotten into a fight but basically, we graduated and the friend wanted nothing to do with me. Let’s call him Willie. Now Willie just moved to Hamburg for two months so he decided to e-mail me: „Glad you’re still using your old adress. I heard you are in Hamburg. That’s good, I was afraid I would be all by myself while here.“

The e-mail surprised me, to say the least, I e-mailed Willie my cell phone number and proposed sunday for a coffee. Willie wrote back immediately. „Good for Sunday. And: What’s your land line?“

Alarm bells ringing. My land line? How can he just ask me for my home phone number? A clear breech of etiquette. He has my cell phone number. On my cell, I’m available for everybody, all the time – or as long as I want. I can simply not answer and press „silent“ when I don’t feel like talking to the caller. Or I can just switch off the phone.

My land line, I can’t just switch off. I could unplug it, but that would be so 90s, psycho-phone terror movie. And, another difference to the 90s: A landline is now a very private number. It’s not in the phonebooks. Only a few special people have it – those whose call would never bother me – especially since under my land line you can only reach me rarely and at weird times. Those who I talk for hours to when they call. My land line is reserved for close friends and close family members.

I’m a land line segregationist. That’s the 2000s for you. Just like you can no longer just show up on people’s doorsteps and ring the bell („hey, I thought I just stop by“) you can no longer just ask them for their landline. The physical home turf, that’s the new private sphere – it used to be just the bed room or the office room. But that was before your entire garden became public, where people can in this open space reach you 24/7 via cell or mail.
Or is it just me that’s overprotective of her phone?

The Economist in its liveability ranking where Hamburg is the 14th best city in the world to live in and the best in Germany – Berlin is on 22th place, Paris 33th, London on 51th – and the best place to live in the USA is Honolulu (27), shortly before San Francisco (29). Cairo is on 111.

„Liveability“, that sounds relaxed and comfy – and so it is. The ranking is based primarily on the factors crime, public transport and healthcare. Granted, culture and the environment also add a bit – so Hamburg is not the most boring German city, just the one where you can go for a run along the beach, take a canoe up the river with a stop at a „paddle-through cafe“ or head clubbing by bike.

Yeah, the healthy city to breathe and live in – that’s what I keep telling myself on days when Hamburg seems too peaceful Cool to be back.

Let them free: Beer-belly sunbathing with beer-belly wishing to see the sun

A penguin in the desert. The good part of it: I got plenty of attention. Asking people questions or having them call me back later proved to be no problem. They very precisely remembered the penguin and they made a point of calling back and of not only answering my questions – but of asking me things in return. Not about the issues I was covering, but about myself.

I was not feeling too comfortable with all of that, thinking that I might have once again been perceived as the „exotic little migrant“ – when a friend of mine whom I told the story cheered me up: „You know, between all these old, ugly, white men, they were just happy to see a young, cute woman.“ – Now I do prefer his interpretation and will stop my migrant paranoia immediately

This is (almost) the absolute opposite of old ugly white men:

For a politician, the „exotic penguin“ factor is useful – you get attention, a valuable good in the daily instant news circus, if you look different/are perceived as different. If you’re then good at what you’re doing so it’s not just about the person: great.
Who could be Germany’s Obama?
I don’t think it’ll be Cem Özdemir. He has been around for too long.
But how about Tarek Al-Wazir? Or Philipp Rösler?

Tarek Al-Wazir, Green Party (Source: www.wiwo.de/.../al-wazir_tarek11581474.jpg)

Philipp Rösler, Liberals (FDP) (source: dpa)

Welcome to our kitchen (also used as sewing lab - it's a doll's hand but yes, whenever you enter the kitchen half drunk, it's creepy)

The terms were clear from the beginning: „I need my space“, Christine told me when I had a look at the apartment. I needed a room for two months in Berlin having squatted a friend’s place for almost a month. No problem, I also need my space. Living together went well, we both are rarely at home and if me bumped into each other, it was in the kitchen where Christine invited me to have some of the food she had prepared.
Unemployed for quite some time now, Christine has the option of either leaving her huge and well-placed apartment for a cheaper one – or to have subletters. She for about a year now has been opting for the later version although she’s completely unable to tolerate anybody in the apartment but herself. Don’t get me wrong, she’s not a bad person. She’s just slightly maniac.

The Sunday I was kicked out was supposed to be my last evening before, on Monday, I was to move out anyways since somebody else would be moving in. But Sunday evening, Christine announced me she wanted to clean my room. Wait? YOU want to clean MY room? Ok. Cool. I didn’t say anything. By now I was already used to the fact that only Christine may clean up in Christine’s apartment because everybody else just does a crappy job and leaves bacteria everywhere.

Problem: She wanted to clean my room immediately, that very second – and of course, bacteria-infected me was not supposed to enter the room thereafter. So I called a friend to move in with her (which luckily worked out, given that it was 7pm and a bit last minute) and asked Christine if it were ok if I cooked the stuff I had just bought – asparagus and an eggplant. Seriously, I’m not going to move out with all my stuff and an eggplant in my hand.

No, it was not ok for me to cook dinner. She wouldn’t be able to clean my room if somebody else was in the apartment. Ehm? Yes. She can’t clean up if anybody else is present in the apartment, don’t mind that there would have been at least three closed doors between me in the kitchen and her in my room.

Alright then. Here, you get the eggplant and the asparagus as a farewell present, since I will definitely not be able to move all of my stuff and the asparagus. I began to find the situation extremely funny. – „No“, she refused to take the vegetables. „I would feel like taking something away from you.“ Now I felt bad. Almost.

I took my already packed backpack and bags, moved out and into a family-owned Pakistani restaurant – the friend I was supposed to move in with, wasn’t free until later that night. The couple who ran the restaurant together was extremely hospitable and treated me with Pakistani dessert they had just received from their family.

Soon, I had another roommate in the restaurant: A friend of mine, who had also been kicked out by her subletters: They expected visitors and needed her room.

You know, in fall, when I will again be moving to Berlin for a couple of months, I’m considering to just move in with the restaurant family. I might be living between tables, chairs and dishes but hey, it would definitely feel more like a home. I already told them I’d be coming back.

(If you’re in Berlin, a place to squat or to have good and cheap Pakistani/Indian food: U-Rosenthaler Platz, Torstraße – just opposite the „Video World“ Torstr. 177)

Berlin has a problem: How do you get rid off unwanted guests? A few weeks ago, a group of Roma came to Berlin as tourists from Romania. They moved into a Park (Görlitzer Park) in Kreuzberg, slept „open air“ and worked during the day, playing music in the streets and on the subway, cleaning car windows or simply asking people for money.

Roma Familie verlässt Kirche (Quelle: Ddp, erschienen auf Spiegel Online)

30 Roma in a park didn’t go unnoticed for too long. So a group of Berliners invited them into a public house that they themselves were squatting. 30 Roma came, 60 Roma came, eventually they were 90 – it was getting a little bit crowded, people started to complain.

So the city of Berlin stopped by to ask the Roma to leave. The group of Berliners declared themselves spokespeople for the Roma and a whole negotiation process started. Yes, they would leave, the Roma’s self-declared spokesmen said, but only if the city of Berlin gave the Roma food, lodging and jobs (citizens of the newest EU-memberstates Bulgaria and Romania may not just settle and work without special permit in Germany). What the Roma themselves demanded, nobody knows.

The city of Berlin offered food and lodgings in an asylum camp – but the camp is partially surrounded by barbed-wire (not the asylum camp administration but the neighbors put it up). A delegation of Roma visited the camp and decided that they didn’t want to live in this sort of prison. Some of them had themselves been mistreated in Romanian prisons and were traumatized, a Roma expert explained.

In the public house, the Roma could no longer stay, there were simply by now too many of them and the group of Berliners never offered more than temporary hospitality. So last week, one night, the Roma suddenly moved out of the squat house and occupied a nearby church. The group of Berliners – still their spokesmen – declared that the Roma wouldn’t leave the church until granted political asylum in Germany.

City council representatives came to the church, once again offered the possibility to stay in the asylum camp – for a maximum of three months (longer, Romanian citizens may not legally stay in Germany without a special permit). This time, most of the Roma agreed – without listening to their self-declared spokesmen – and moved into the camp.

Now, almost 100 Roma are living in the camp. They have food and a place to sleep – but their future is still in limbo. The city of Berlin wants them out and offered them money to leave. But they don’t want to go back to Romania.

The Roma are Europe’s largest ethnic minority and face discrimination everywhere. They often live in poverty, the European Commission noted and calls on member countries to integrate them. But precisely how is a question the EU countries haven’t resolved yet.

Until the Berlin authorities figure out what to do, the Roma wait in the camp. Other families still squat in the open across the city. On Monday, a group of them was beaten up by security agents of Berlin’s public transport system. The security agents maintain that it was the young Roma, among them a pregnant woman, who attacked them first.

Letzter Ägypten-Eintrag. Oder: Ich weiß immer noch nicht, was hier eigentlich geht.

Eine Uni-Freundin von mir war nach Kairo gekommen. Ich hatte sie exakt ein Jahr zuvor kennen gelernt. Vom Aussehen her hätte ich auf Spanierin getippt. Sie stellte sich als Halb-Griechin aus Zypern und Halb-Palästinenserin vor (letzteres mütterlicherseits). Um den Hals trägt sie immer ein großes goldenes Kreuz. Zuletzt hatte sie in Kairo gewohnt. Arabisch sprach sie aber mit palästinensischem Akzent. Automatisch nahm ich an, dass sie die Tochter irgendeines griechischen Botschafters oder Botschaftsangestellten war.

Nun sah ich sie wieder. Sie war vor einem knappen Monat nach Kairo zurückgekommen, wohnte wieder bei ihrer Familie, hatte einen Job gefunden und war mit wieder ihrem Ex zusammen. Soviel hatte sie mir am Telefon verraten. Und wann und wo sie mich einsammeln würde mit dem Auto.

Wir gingen in eine der besseren Cafe-Adressen der Stadt etwas trinken. Ihr Freund war dabei. Er heißt Jesus (und ich verwende hier kein Pseudonym…). Und was bitte war das für eine Sprache, mit der er ihre Fahrweise ungeduldig und macho-ig kommentierte? Griechisch.

Wie jetzt, noch einer? Maria und Jesus (vielleicht hätte ich Pseudonyme verwenden sollen) sind beide in 5. (!) Generation Griechen in Kairo. Ihre Ururgroßeltern kamen Anfang des 20. Jahrhunderts, als die kosmopolitischen Städte Ägyptens Handelsmetropolen von Ruf waren. Die meisten Griechen, Armenier, Europäer, Juden haben dann am Anfang der zweiten Hälfte des 20. Jahrhunderts das Weite gesucht; die nationalistische Stimmung lud nicht gerade zum Bleiben ein.

Von den sieben, acht griechischen Kirchen ist eine noch übrig; der Rest wurde von Kopten übernommen, die wahrscheinlich 95% der ägyptischen Christen stellen. (Die Kopten sind „die eigentlichen Ägypter“ – die, die sich nicht zum Islam konvertierten. Keine „Newcomer“ wie die Griechen.).

Von den ehemals fünf griechischen Schulen blieb noch eine. Maria und Jesus besuchten sie, bevor sie ihre Universitätsbildung „ganz normal“ fortsetzten; Maria schaffte es auf die Kairoer Universität und Jesus sogar auf die Amerikanische Privatuniversität. Ihren heutigen Freundeskreis lernten sie dort kennen – die meisten sind Muslime. „Selbstverständlich, es gibt ja vielleicht gerade noch 2000 Griechen insgesamt in Kairo.“ Maria erzählt von ihrer palästinensischen Großmutter, die mit ihrer jüdischen Nachbarin dickst befreundet war.

Ob sie in Kairo bleiben wird, wenn ihr Vertrag im Juni ausläuft, weiß sie noch nicht genau. Kairo ist Heimat, hier wuchs sie auf, verbrachte sie – mit Ausnahme des Jahrs an unserer Uni – ihr ganzes Leben. Doch „ohne Jesus“ erzählt sie, „wäre das Zurückkommen schwierig geworden.“ Ihre ganzen muslimischen Freunde haben geheiratet, die ersten bekommen Kinder, dabei sind sie wie sie 23. Maria versteht die Welt nicht mehr, wie konnte ein Jahr Abwesenheit so viel verändern? Vielleicht doch wieder Ausland..?

Über „Ägypter“ sprechen beide in der dritten Person. „Sie“. „Siehst du, das ist das Schöne an den Ägyptern, hier geht alles, vor allem mit Geld.“ – sagt Maria als sie fröhlich vor den Augen des Verkehrspolizisten im absoluten Halteverbot parkt. Er räumt ihr sogar noch die Absperrung weg. Einen guten Euro umgerechnet kriegt er dafür.

Sie erzählen mir von der goldenen Zeit unter dem König (ein Tabuthema!), vom Beginn des Niedergangs unter Nasser, der Korruption, den Fehlern des Sozialismus. „Aber eigentlich können wir uns nicht beklagen.“ Wirft Maria ein. „Uns geht es gut. Ich meine wir leben in einem muslimischen Staat, wir sind geschützt und wirtschaftlich geht es uns auch gut.“

Hier entsteht vor meinen Augen auf einmal das Osmanische Reich des 19. Jahrhunderts mit seinem „Dhimmi“-System, in dem die anerkannten christlichen und jüdischen Minderheiten Schutz unter dem islamischen Herrscher genossen und meist in Handel zu einigem Wohlstand kamen.

Jesus sieht die Sache mit dem Wohlstand etwas anders. Er weist darauf hin, dass Korea vor 50 Jahren halb so reich war wie Ägypten und heute 20-mal so wohlhabend ist. (Als Wirtschaftler kann ich ihm innerlich nur zustimmen – die Stagnation der arabischen Länder des Mittelmeers ist weltweit einmalig. Nur die Länder der Subsahara entwickelten sich „noch bescheidener“ um euphemistisch zu sein).

Aber wie man die Situation verändern könnte, daran wollen beide gar nicht denken. „Die Ägypter sind zu großer Mehrheit ungebildet. Ohne Bildung keine Demokratie.“ Die beiden wechseln mühelos und fließend zwischen Englisch, Französisch, Griechisch und Arabisch – in einem Land, in dem zwei Drittel nicht lesen und schreiben können.

Am Anfang des 21. Jahrhunderts, an einem Abend mit zwei, nenne ich sie „moderne Ägypter“ – sie selbst würden sich nie als Ägypter bezeichnen, auch wenn sie die Nationalität des Landes besitzen, doch ihre Modernität, so wie die ihrer muslimischen Freunde würden sie hervorheben – am Anfang des 21. Jahrhunderts im modernen Kairo fand ich auf einmal das des 19. Jahrhunderts wieder.

Die Komplexität dieser Gesellschaft entlarvt meine Ahnungslosigkeit als ein Fass ohne Boden. An einem Abend mit einer griechischen Freundin, die sich als eigentliche Ägypterin herausstellte, wurde mir klar, dass ich mittlerweile genug weiß, um zu wissen, dass ich nichts weiß. Für mich ist das ein positives Zeichen. Ich gehe von hier fort und weiß: Trotz, beziehungsweise dank, der Unwissenheit: Ich habe ein bisschen was gelernt.