Terrible company finds a way into our lives, even when we don't invite it. Several weeks ago, my father-in-law asked me about life in Berlin. I told him about my misadventures here and how, in late August, I visited a small Italian restaurant where I sat next to two fashionable, young British women who had ordered freshly made pasta, Sicilian olives, and a bottle of wine. When the waitress provided them with the bill, their plates were empty, and the bottle of wine was hollow, but they complained they had waited too long for their food, which was cold when it arrived. The flustered waitress took their claim seriously and fetched the restaurant manager. As the conversation continued, we diners hung on to every word as one of the women retorted that she did not like the manager's tone and threatened to walk out and not pay. After ten minutes of fraught and failed negotiations, the women did just that.
Like the other guests who overheard this dispute, their unruly behavior captivated and stunned me. If I had been this bold, I would have died of embarrassment. But my father-in-law said this phenomenon is typical where he lives, in the UK: "I think there is a decline in basic manners. I know that's a grumpy old man thing to say."
For the past week, I have spent the best time of my days in southern France running, swimming, and hiking. I'm nestled in a small fishing village that hugs the Mediterranean coast, a rest stop for sailboats and fishermen. Every morning, I wake up hearing the waves crash against the rocks while reveling in the intense geological beauty of the Calanque (pictured below). Here, life moves at a snail's pace as the humid air quenches my balmy skin. When walking past a cafe, I might find a venerable woman fanning herself from the mid-afternoon heatwave or young boys gossiping, telling each other the tales they want to hear. This is a village where people get a sense of themselves because time has temporarily stopped, and all one can do is feel the footraces of one's memory while glaring at the radiance from the moon.
Of course, I know France's many (historical) imperfections that continue to plague its former colonies. As I type, there is a bedbug outbreak in Paris happening. But something about being away from Berlin, far from the U-Bahn, the grey sky, and the ambulance siren gives me the most profound form of euphoria. I relish the fact that I have not had to be a witness to or in the presence of bad company.
A Word
Earlier this month, I wrote an essay for Contemporary And about the Haus der Kulturen der Welt in Berlin. I spoke with Bonaventure Soh Bejeng Ndikung, who took over as director in January. Ndikung and I talked about Berlin, art, and performance. But I also highlighted what it means for the curatorial team and the architecture of the HKW to reflect anti-colonial and feminist people from African, Asian, and Caribbean Diasporas.
Closing Thoughts
Over the next month, I will continue to reside in this Mediterranean town and meditate on Albert Einstein's words: "I live in that solitude which is playful in youth but delicious in the years of maturity."
Yours,