August 2009.
My Home. My Balcony. My Telephone.
I was looking forward to spring in Berlin. I told you: When you must go back to your old place you should choose a season you like. That is what I heard from a very experienced traveller. And it is very true. I was lucky that I went back in spring because spring in Berlin is lovely. I missed spring in Cambodia very much. There you don't have distinct seasons, there it is either hot and raining or not so hot and not raining, there you slowly lose the sense of time when you come from Europe like me. Time for me is related to spring-summer-fall-and-winter, the year should have four seasons and you should be able to distinguish them from one another. At least this is how I see it. Well – this is my upbringing. This is my regional background. And spring is awaited in my hometown around March. In March I left Cambodia and in March I went home. While I am writing this – a little later in the year – I have been back for quite some time. But don’t worry. We will catch up with time and we will be on time with our lessons asap.
So I came home (to Germany) after the cold had gone. To celebrate my birthday with neighbours and friends. To see the plants and the trees come back to life after an especially long winter. To adjust to my new-old everyday life. My friends gave me a beautiful bunch of flowers in my favourite colours red and yellow. They remembered that I had told them about the beautiful trees totally covered in yellow which grew near my house on Street 9 in Phnom Penh. Having put the German flower bunch on my Berlin dinner-table I decided I had to do something with my balcony which was still lifeless and deserted.
In Berlin I live in an old house on the fourth floor – in America or in China you would say it is the fifth floor. We, in Germany, start counting after the actual first floor which we call the ground floor. So I live on the ground floor plus four extra floors. This is a real climbing exercise for the un-experienced. Believe me. Even in a moderate climate this makes you sweat. And there is no elevator in my house because it was built around 1890 where elevators were scarce or even unknown. What you see on the picture is a tiny part of my balcony. To tell you the truth: I am a lucky person because I have two balconies. The picture I sent you is my north balcony. The picture was easy to be made. My south balcony is much bigger. Friends of mine call it “the southern frontier” because it is a south bound terrace and quite spacious and – of course – just as lovely. How happy I am …
This is my lovely telephone. When you think about it and assume it looks old-fashioned you are perfectly right because it is. Old-fashioned, yes. Original, no. In case you might wonder what material it is made from: Bakelite. Actually the material is formaldehyde resin polyoxybenzylmethylenglycolanhydride. Yes! I looked it up for all of you chemistry freaks. I hope it reminds you of some mysterious and stinky chemistry lesson in junior high school. I would have never known anything about Bakelite if I hadn't worked in a museum where we collected all the wonderful design items from the late 19th and early 20th century. At that time these items had no special value and were mostly kitchenware and household utensils. The turn of the century was quite an interesting time period for the arts and handicrafts, by the way. Anyway, this long-named formaldehyde resin is not plastic, but a more natural material. The guy who invented it in 1907 was a Belgian called Dr. Leo Baekeland and his product was obviously named after him.
My white telephone is a replica. You could say it is the grand-grand-grand child of a telephone I grew up with.
My parents did not have a telephone when I was a child in Germany's 1950s. So we had to go to Grandpa's when we wanted to call somebody. Since we lived in Grandpa's house it seems to have been an easy task. It was not.
We rarely wanted to use Grandpa's phone – it was a difficult and bothersome affair. Grandpa was the oldest person I remember having seen in my childhood. He was a tiny man with round spectacles, a shaky voice when he got upset or angry (quite often) and very skinny hands with the blue veins clearly showing on top of his hands. He did not like us calling from his phone because it belonged to his company. (And when I think about it now: I believe he did not like children at all.) My grandfather had an agency and the agency (that was actually only my grandfather) paid the telephone bill. For some strange reason we children did not understand the fuss he made about the distinction "my company" on one side and "myself" on the other side. So I grew up with very few moments of telephone experience. I do remember my grandfather's phone-number though. My mother wrote it in big Arabic numerals on the inside of my schoolbag as she also wrote my name and my address in case I got lost. I never got lost and really never needed to be reminded neither of my name nor my address. But each time I looked into my schoolbag (quite often every single day) I saw the numbers written in blue ink: 37 76 55 – my grandfather’s telephone number. While writing this I notice to my own surprise that part of that decades old phone number is for some mysterious reason part of my new phone number.
"If you need general information please push 1. If you want information concerning your account please push 2." I really hate these announcements because I cannot follow the orders. Actually my telephone cannot do it. My telephone is equipped with only a dial, it is not a push-button telephone. Still I don't feel like buying a new one. This white little design wonder is like a pet in my home. It has lived with me for a long time, it grew old with me, it might survive me – who knows. And I don't want it to become jealous. I am very much attached to people I like and to things I own. So naturally my loyalty includes my telephone. There is only one in my house – there is no mobile rival contesting my attention and occupying my hand and ear. No. Like a queen the white Bakelite sits enthroned on its little red table and waits.
And it certainly waits. And waits. No, you don’t have to call me. I’d rather wish you’d read your e-mail and do your homework. It has been a lovely experience that you’ve read the first lesson. Keep on doing that!
Your teacher Helga.
August 4, 2009.
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