The German flag

Deutschland, Deutschland

Since the end of World War II, the German flag has been a symbol of ambivalence for most Germans, bringing with it ugly whiffs of nationalism gone terribly wrong during the insanity of the Nazis. It was flown at official buildings, but the thought of hoisting it frivolously on the front porch or during a garden barbecue would have been met by the average German with revulsion and suspicion. The flag and its accompanying patriotism were too closely associated with the deep national disgrace of the Third Reich, and for more than half a century they had not come to terms with it.

But now, unbelievably, this is what we see when we go outside: German flags fluttering from the window of every other car and people walking around adorned in German-flag-themed afro wigs, scarves, and sweat bands. And surprisingly for this land of philosophers and musicians and intellectuals, the catalyst for the sweeping change was soccer.

Two years ago during the World Soccer Cup, Germany spawned a Cinderella soccer team that came from nowhere and knocked out the traditional giants to nearly win the world championship. People who were in Germany during those days say that the country was unified and hopeful and patriotic as they had never seen it before, with people dancing and singing in the streets and smiling and embracing strangers. Not exactly typical German behavior, but liberating nonetheless after decades of collective guilt. What emerged was a newborn patriotism, and a rehabilitation of sorts for the German flag.

The reason for the proliferation of flags again now is the European Soccer Cup, a bit like America's Super Bowl or World Series to the 10^th power. All of Germany—all of Europe—is glued to their televisions when the games are broadcast, and afterward here in Berlin they take to the streets with raucous singing and convoys of honking cars.

As of now, Germany's hopes for a second chance at a title are still alive. And German flags are flying everywhere, proudly.

Anatomy of an apartment

Them Bones, Them Bones . . .

Neue Kantstraße 3

I have to admit: I have sometimes complained about certain features of this apartment. The wood floors have slivers. The floorboards squeak. The bathroom sink and the washing machine leak. I can't keep the floors clean. The walls and molding desperately need a good paint job. Yada yada yada.

But what wins me back every time are those beautiful bones. Like an aging diva, she's got her wrinkles and extra pounds and leaks, but you just can't ignore her gorgeous bones. Built in 1906 in the heyday of the ritzy Charlottenburg neighborhood, less than a mile from Princess Sophie Charlotte's castle, this was a city apartment for the upper crust, the landed gentry. From here one could easily promenade to the Kurfüstendamm or Savignyplatz to see and be seen. Here was the representative salon for entertaining the society denizens.

Just imagine the maid
opening these spectacular Art Niveau
stained glass double doors and saying,
"Dinner is served, my lady."

Or peeping at your callers
through the beehive keyhole on these locks.
(See the bee buzzing nearby?)

Or glancing out the window to see
what Baron Schmidt and his wife
are eating for dinner tonight
in their dining room across the tree-lined street.

Or waltzing on the polished parquet floors.

Or refreshing yourself with cool water
from the recessed sink in the water closet.

Or walking out through this grand front door
to take your spoiled Berliner Hund for a walkchen.

When you went to give instructions to the cook
for the evening's meal,
you'd admire the Delft tiles imported from Holland
that decorate the kitchen walls.

The cook could always run to the market
through the hidden kitchen door
to the spiral staircase that the servants used.
The old gas lamps are still in their original recessed panels.

Wait a second, how did this picture get in here?
The poor maid's closet-sized bedroom
is now our overpacked storeroom!
Fortunately, she doesn't mind.

What's that rattling? Ah, yes, them bones, them bones, them dry bones . . . them dry Berliner bones!