Berlin is a fascinating place: it is steeped in history which still resonates deeply throughout the city, from its wide boulevards around the Brandenburg Gate to its seamier quarters to the east of the wall.  The best way to orientate yourself and begin to experience the richness of the city is through one of the brilliant free walking tours.  I did one with New Berlin Tours and it was great; the guide, Mike, was funny and extremely knowledgeable, and the atmosphere was really friendly.

The majestic Brandenburg Gate

You meet close to the imposing Brandeburg Gate and spend the next three hours or so visiting all of the main attractions in the city as listed on the link above.  The new Holocaust Memorial, in the news recently after Easyjet ran fashion photographs taken there in its in-flight magazine, is a sombre and moving site, and the impact is probably sharpened by its proximity to the location of Hitler’s former bunker (which, unsurprisingly, is barely commemorated).

Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe

The museum is a terrifying reminder of the Third Reich, and is a difficult but truly worthwhile experience.  The personal stories which are told are evocative and harrowing, and a visit leaves you very contemplative for the rest of the day and a long while afterwards.

On a happier note, the memorial is next to a strip of truly dreadful cafeterias serving up second-rate reheated drudge to budget travellers such as myself.  I had the misfortune to eat a spaghetti bolognaise served up by a guy who looked like he was from the Village People, before being chased out of the bathroom by a very small woman wielding a can of air freshener and shouting at me in German.

I spent a lot of time in Berlin running away from toilet attendants who would attempt to extort half a euro every time as I so much thought about paying a visit to the loo.  I actually sprinted out of Dunkin’ Donuts near Zoologischer Garten station one day to escape from a particularly angry man who was brandishing a tip tray at me and making vivid gestures towards the toilet.

The Hotel Adlon

Opposite the Brandenburg Gate is the Hotel Adlon, where the late great Michael Jackson famously dangled one of his children out of the window.  The Presidential Suite on the top floor costs $12,000-a-night and has bulletproof glass in the windows among its many very cool features.  If I win the lottery…

The Reichstag is the home of the German Parliament, and its roof alone makes it worth a visit.  You can look down into the chamber when parliament is in session: “a reminder to the politicians that we are always looking in on them and that they are accountable to us,” an ageing Berliner told me.  Get there early to beat the crowds, and be prepared for a very thorough (in my case, patently illegal) level of frisking.  All I will say is avoid the security guard with the handlebar moustache.

The Reichstag roof

The Berlin Wall, which collapsed 20 years ago, is an integral part of the visit, though very few parts of it remain intact and those that do are protected by fencing.  As with many parts of the city’s history, there’s a residual feeling of shame and embarrassment about it amongst the city’s residents, who you feel would rather live without the permanent reminders of their country’s past.

Checkpoint Charlie

Checkpoint Charlie is very artificial and one of the few attractions in the city which is a little underwhelming.  But you can take your disappointment away by heading into the unbelievably decadent Fassbender & Rausch chocolate shop which has models of things such as the Reichstag and the Titanic, all made out of chocolate.  The only thing stopping me from plunging my face straight in was concern about how long they had been there.

The Reichstag - made of chocolate

My face upon being told not to eat the Brandenburg Gate

Pergamon Museum entrance

The TV Tower - all 368 metres of it

A penguin doing his best Marilyn Manson impression

The sign marking the death march

As with the Holocaust memorial in the city, it is a very graphic realisation of the horrors of what went on there less than a century ago.  The tour around is well-constructed and allows plenty of time for personal exploration and reflection.  Imposing, thought-provoking, and with a huge underlying unease, it in many ways replicates the city itself.

'Freedom through work'

There is hardly anything more fulfilling than making your own bread.  This is an easy recipe for those cafeteria style rolls.  You remember them.  Those tall, buttery rolls that used to come with everything from Country Fried Steak to Turkey and Mashed potatoes at the school cafeteria.  These light, fluffy, wonderful rolls are my favorite recipe right now.  They are simple enough to make, and they taste like bakery quality.  If you follow the directions correctly, these little puppies will tickle your tastebuds and keep you coming back for more.  One problem:  once you start, you can’t stop.  These rolls are dangerous.  I use my Kitchenaid Mixer, with the bread hook attachment. 

Directions

1. In a mixing bowl, mix together the warm water and 1 tablespoon sugar until dissolved. Sprinkle the yeast over the top, stir, and let it stand for about 10 minutes, until the yeast is foamy.
2. Mix the milk, eggs and salt into the yeast.
3. In a separate bowl, measure the flour, add 2/3 cup sugar, and crumble the softened butter into it using your fingers until it is barely noticeable. You want to basically play in the flour, grinding up the butter with your fingers, mixing it in.  Gradually stir the flour mixture into the wet ingredients. Mix in your mixer, until the dough pulls away from the sides of the bowl and starts to form a ball around the hook.  
4. Wet a clean kitchen towel, ring it out – and put it in the microwave for about 30 seconds.  Cover the bowl with the hot towel and set in a warm place to rise until it has doubled in bulk. This should take about an hour.
5. When the dough has risen, pour the melted butter over it, and knead for about 2 minutes.
6. Let the dough rest for a few minutes, then roll it out on a lightly floured surface to about 1 inch thick. Use a knife or pizza cutter (this is what I use) to cut into 2 inch squares.  Roll each square into a ball, and place into greased cookie sheets, spacing about 3/4  inch apart. Let them sit for about 45 minutes to rise again.  You could also refrigerate the dough at this point, and let it rise overnight for baking the next day.
7. If you’d like you can melt additional butter – add some honey or garlic, and brush this on the rolls before baking.  This will help them to brown nicely.
8. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F.  Bake for about 12 minutes, until golden brown.

You can take any scraps, or misshapen pieces of dough that don’t make the roll call – cut them up to about 1/4 inch pieces; toss them in cinnamon sugar, and stuff them into a baking pan.  Cover with a little melted butter and bake for about 20 minutes, for a yummy sweet treat.  Don’t judge me.

by Rajdeep D

The first time I saw her was at a computer lab in the university. I was trying to get a free computer to sit at and finish my oh-so-important English assignment. I am sure that I was gaping at her with my mouth open when she walked in with her friend. Somehow, I did manage to close my mouth when she looked my way. “Smooth move player!”, I said to myself rolling my eyes towards the heavens.

Yes, there were times I wanted to go up to her and say “Hi!” or something along that line. I mean, I do have the courage to do that but I couldn’t bring myself to do that. Why? We will come to that later.

The next time I saw her was a week after my gaping incident. I remember she was in the Cafeteria and I was sitting at the table beside hers with my friends. I couldn’t help but look at her. I know, I know, I sound like a teenager. But well, as I said before, I couldn’t help it. A really weird idea came to my head. What if I paid one of the mamas in the Cafeteria and sent a drink (Obviously Mountain Dew or Coke or something. What were you expecting?) to her?

But alas, I couldn’t bring myself to do that either!

Why? I’ll tell you why.

It is not the fear of rejection that bugged me. It is the fear of what she might think of me that bothered me. Let’s face it; we live in a conservative society. She might just think that I am a pervert or worse a “bokhate”. I wouldn’t want that now, would I? We learn what the society teaches us. But, we end being a bunch of hypocrites behind a veil of niceness. We still can’t express how we feel about each other. We are close, yet so far.

I would be happy just being friends with her. Not everything in the world is about scoring a girlfriend or a boyfriend. I do believe that platonic relationships do occur in the real world.

I didn’t see my beautiful stranger ever again after that day. Now I am writing this dismal article expressing my regret.

You know what? If you like someone let them know it. Go to the town !!

Sometimes, it is better to be sorry than safe.

I don't know, something about a condom!

Karen Hollander, a teacher from the High School of Art & Design in New York City, is suing the Department of Education after slipping on condoms and hurting her head.Nasty! Oh dear god in the suit she claims school officials failed to maintain safety in the cafeteria. Say what? She slipped on a condom in the cafeteria? Evidently, they handed them out to students while they were having lunch and well, kids will be kids, they were flinging them around the place. Thank goodness, for a minute I thought they may have been used ones…that would be gross and well worth a sue! All in all it seems like  a simple a case of lazy bastarditis to me.

En su 40º Aniversario, Freddo festeja la apertura de una exclusiva heladería en Piccadilly Circus, ubicada en el cruce de regent y piccadilly street. Esta iniciativa forma parte de un plan para abrir durante los próximos dos años al menos seis heladerías en la capital inglesa.

Freddo llega a Londres en asociación con una prestigiosa cadena inglesa de restaurantes, y además de dar a conocer 25 sabores, ofrece café y pastelería típica argentina, desarrollada por el chef argentino Fernando Trocca. Un promedio de 200 personas visitan por día la nueva sucursal, a través de la cual Freddo fideliza cada vez más clientes, que encuentran entre sus favoritos los sabores Dulce de Leche Granizado y Malbec y Frutos Rojos.

En el marco de la celebración de los 40 años de Freddo, es una inmensa satisfacción para todos los que son parte del proyecto, haber abierto puertas también en una de las ciudades más sofisticadas y desarrolladas del mundo. Freddo se constituye así como un emblema de la calidad de los productos argentinos, y su legitimidad para ingresar y ser apreciados en cualquier parte del mundo. En los días que lleva abierto el local, la respuesta del público londinense es realmente exitosa.  Esperando llegar a tener 5 locales en Londres.

Desde el inicio de sus actividades en 1969, Freddo es la marca pionera en elaboración y venta de helados artesanales, con 43 sucursales en la Argentina y 9 en el exterior, siendo la primera en internacionalizarse con su llegada a Uruguay.

Fuente: Gastronomiconet

El encargo de la reforma tenía la dificultad de conseguir dos zonas de diferentes usos en un espacio bastante estrecho. Se opta por retrasar el comienzo de la barra lo máximo para poder ubicar varias mesas bajas, y así habilitar el espacio cercano a la entrada para servicio de comidas.  A lo largo del local y paralelo a la barra se eligen unas mesas altas y estrechas de modo que se permite un doble espacio para estar de pie o en taburetes.

Ambos lados se acompañan de trasdosados de paneles de madera, acabado wengué, hasta la altura de dichas mesas.

EMPRESA SELECCIONA:
Dependiente/a de cafeteria (REF:1181)

FUNCIONES:
·    Venta y atención al público
·    Preparación en cocina caliente y fría
·    Oficce y limpieza

SE REQUIERE:
·    Experiencia: Valorable
·    residencia en proximidades a Tres Cantos

SE OFRECE:
·    Contrato: Indefinido
·    Localidad: Tres Cantos
·    Jornada: 30 horas semanales
·    Horario: Turnos rotativos
·    Salario: Según convenio de hostelería (730€ brutos)

Las personas interesadas dirigirse para preselección a:
Centro Integrado de Empleo de UGT – TRES CANTOSAvda. Viñuelas 1 – 28760 Tres Cantos  Tfno: 918047936
IMPRESCINDIBLE ADJUNTAR FOTOCOPIA DE LA DEMANDA DE EMPLEO

School Lunches: Are we raising fast foodies?

In addition to my passion for education,  I also fancy myself to be a bit of a cook. I read cookbooks, cooking website, the Dining/Wine section of the NY Times, and cooking magazines. If it’s about food, I enjoy reading it!

While perusing a copy of Vegetarian Times, I came across an interview with author Michael Pollan, who recently released a young readers’ edition of his best-selling book The Ominvore’s Dilemma. The excerpt below conjured up images of my sixth grade students in the cafeteria. They have a thirty minute lunch period, and they wait in line to receive lunch “components” in cardboard trays sealed with plastic wrap. These trays arrive at school frozen in the morning, and they are heated by the school. The children must eat very quickly, and they are always still finishing lunch when I arrive to get them for class.

Q When it comes to educating children about their food choices, what roles do schools and parents play?

A School cafeterias serve chicken “McNuggets” and give kids 10 minutes to eat, educating them to be the next generation of fast-food eaters. We need to give kids good food and enough time to eat it, teach them where food comes from, and provide them with opportunities to grow the food in school gardens and cook it in school kitchens. Knowing how to cook is an essential skill. Parents can also get their kids involved in cooking. They need to take back control of their kids’ diets, which has been ceded to food marketers. [Parents] need to be the gatekeepers.

Cuando salió de beberse el primer café del día no pudo por más que coger el móvil y escribir a sus amigas:

“Adiós; me despido de vosotras. Antes de nochevieja probablemente haya muerto de una crisis hipertensiva, o una racha de palpitaciones malignas. ¿El motivo? Me han puesto un argentino simpático y meloso que me mira con ojos de corderito en la cafetería de debajo mi casa. Me sonríe y me canta (a mí al resto, pero eso no importa) mientras trato de concentrarme en leer las noticias del periódico. Todo eso por si todavía no tenía adicción a la cafeína, ¿sabés pibe?. Si alguna de vosotras se compra la Nespresso para navidades, y como consecuencia de la crisis despiden a este chico… juro por dios que os saco un ojo con una cucharilla de café.”

Teachers fall into two catagories when it comes to eating habits. One is the lunchroom eater and the other is the lone wolf eater.
The cafeteria either buys his or her lunch from the “lunch lady” or brings in an elaborate show for their fellow teachers. One teacher would deliberately bring in steak au poivre or something equally obnoxious, just so she could brag. The other cafeteria eaters would stare at their stale breaded ham and cheese sandwich and cringe a little. I made sure to make an appearance, at least on Fridays, so I didn’t seem like I wasn’t a “social” person.
The lone wolf eaters ate in their classroom. These are people who choke down a snicker bar and diet coke. I personally loved turning on Maury and put my head down on a student desk and shut my eyes. 40 minutes of rest is very valuable and you can slurp down a slimfast in about 3 minutes. That is when the lunch over bell rings and the kids can say…ew…what are you drinking?

No, not the reality television show, I mean the Biggest Loser of East Montgomery High (circa 2000-2004). Guilty. As. Charged.  Yeah, I know high school wasn’t all peaches for a lot of individuals but it was especially true in my case.  I have never written about that time in my life because for the longest all I’ve done was try to forget it. Recently though, those old memories have begun to stir in my mind thanks to, of all things, Facebook. I know if I don’t do something to acknowledge them they will only haunt me even more.  Even if it’s in the form of an insignificant little blog post, it’s time to do something instead of running away.

The first inkling of isolation didn’t even manifest in high school. The groundwork had already been laid in middle school. Social awkwardness knew no bounds when it came to me.  To say that I “started off on the wrong foot” is a gross underestimation. Our middle school (East Middle) was the connecting station for two elementary schools on the opposite sides of town, Candor Elementary (me!) and Star Elementary.  Advanced placement classes suddenly became a curse.  My classes were mostly comprised of students from the other side of the tracks, Star kids. Some of my Candor alumni were in my classes but I was never particularly close friends with those select individuals. I was torn away from my silly comrades who I used to joke around with.

More strikingly, I was 1 of only 2 Mexican children in the class. The other was a smart and sassy lass by the name of Ingrid Meza. Although at that time we were not on very good terms but that too was my fault. Why? Picture it, the scene: 5^th grade classroom, friendly chat with the boys, one fateful question. “What girl do you like?”  Even at that early age I knew what I had to do, something I got very good at later on: LIE! When it came my turn to name my schoolboy crush I quickly scanned the classroom and my eyes fell upon little Ingrid Meza. Quickly before I arose any suspicion, I named her my love interest.  Not that she wasn’t a very cute girl, but of course for reasons that were made quite clear later on in life, I never had butterflies for her.  Well as is common in any school, word quickly spread that I was “madly in love” with Ingrid. That day I planted the seeds of a lie that would follow me through out my Montgomery County school career.  I would forever be known for having a crush on Ms. Meza.

Anyways where was I, oh yea so the other Mexican in the class didn’t want anything to do with me. Out of fear or boredom, I began to antagonize the star kids. As far as I knew we could never get along, they were the enemy. In math class I began to draw pictures of some star kid’s heads with varying animal bodies (pigs, frogs, etc.)  I did it because I felt like an outsider. I was just flailing wildly in the dark, trying to hit someone, anyone, with my attacks. Of course in retrospect I know what I did was wrong…funny, but wrong. It had lasting consequences and even immediate ones. I didn’t come out completely unscathed from the attacks. They fought back. They said mean things back, and since I was outnumbered and I had no one to come to my defense, they all laughed at me.  I remember I started crying in class so I ran outside. I think that’s why to this day I’m still so bad at fractions. Sixth grade made it official: I was that weird kid, the loser.

Not only that, the kids I used to play with seemed to have found novel friends with the star children in their respective classrooms. So I didn’t belong here or there. I began to steadily grow apart from all possible sides. I felt forgotten. I felt like a monster. I thought for sure that’s how everyone saw me. So I became one. I decided to be alone from that point on and would push everyone away.  It was a gradual process, nothing abrupt. For example, sometimes when I could I would sneak out before lunch was up and just go sit outside in the small courtyard opposite the lunchroom. The noise inside the cafeteria began to bother me so I enjoyed sitting outside by myself. Plus I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone, or make up lies, or say mean things.

For the most part middle school was bearable. I got through it but little did I know the worst was yet to come.  What began in middle school only increased exponentially in high school.

I was awkward. I was ugly. Fat. Friendless.  What a perfect way to start off freshman year, right?  Not having a safety net of any sort, not even family members since my sister had already quit school, I was scared beyond imagination. I couldn’t even eat lunch in the cafeteria.  The noise was no longer just a minor disturbance, it was deafening. No longer were they the soft voices of pre-teens, but of fully-fledged teenagers.  The upperclassmen were so much bigger than me. As soon as I saw the upgraded cafeteria environment I turned right around and went to sit in the courtyard.

However unlike in middle school where the courtyard was for the most part barren, the lunchroom crowd spilled out into the courtyard. There were a few concrete tables, picnic tables and even a gazebo for those into a scenic lunch.  Most of them already had owners, so I just went to sit on a short brick wall that was the perimeter for the concrete table sets. I sat facing the senior parking lot in front of the school which was also the main entrance.  My back turned to everyone and everything. I could only see the cars, the main road, and the 100ft coniferous trees that enclosed the entrance and most of the school since it was a pretty wooded area. I would imagine myself anywhere but there. I would even imagine myself running across the tree tops.

And for as long I went to that school, I never once entered that cafeteria during lunch time.  Rain or shine, I would go sit outside for the duration of lunch period. The longest forty-five minutes of my life.  Sometimes I would pretend to do homework when in reality I was probably just doodling. I did it so no one would want to come up and talk to me. Through-out the year I would try to switch it up and sit in different places. Sometimes I would sit near a group of fellow Mexicans and just watch on as they had conversations. I would never say anything but no one ever really asked me to. I was like a stone gargoyle just keeping guard on the wall.

Other times I would sit on one side of a picnic table usually occupied by a group of boisterous black girls.  That’s when I would just sit quietly pretending to do homework while listening to their entertaining speech patterns. I sat there until one incident made me never sit there again. As previously mentioned I was struggling with weight issues* at the time (present day: *ahem it’s an ongoing battle) and thanks to my prodigious girth I had what could only be called “man-boobs”.  Duane Steele was a nasty miscreant from my Algebra class who was a junior at the time.  One sunny day as I was sitting at the table per usual pretending to do homework I heard a loud ruckus approaching me from behind. When I tried to turn around to see what it was, Duane had already reached around from behind and grabbed my “man-boobs” in front of everyone in the courtyard. I can’t remember what he said exactly but rest assured it was a joke at my expense. My face began to burn as I just couldn’t believe what happened. I heard the girls at the other side of the table abrupt with laughter, and I didn’t really notice anything else because I just sat staring at my books. I could feel tears well up in my eyes. I was so embarrassed.  I just wanted to get up and run away at that point but lunch wasn’t over and I didn’t want to draw anymore attention to myself.  As soon as the bell rang to dismiss lunch I grabbed my stuff and bolted into the school building and into the first boy’s bathroom I could find. I checked my face for any traces of tear tracks or red eyes and contemplated skipping class and just sitting in the bathroom. I decided against it because the only class I found any measurable sense of relief was next period.

It was my freshman English class. The teacher, Mrs. Pratt, was by far and away my favorite teacher in that wretched place.  From the beginning she saw something in me that only very few people had seen before. She liked what I had to say and often doted tremendously on my writing. I was genuinely happy for a while.  Unfortunately I was only able to have one semester with her freshman year.  But I made a triumphant return senior year as she also taught AP English.

I made it that far because I was able to parry the loneliness of high school with a part-time job. Sophomore year on a suggestion by another English teacher I applied at a pharmacy one town over. Whatever made Kayren, my boss, hire me was truly a godsend. I always looked forward to going to work after school. At work not only did I make friends with my co-workers but I was also needed.  It felt like a new start because I didn’t have any baggage there. Most of my co-workers were either from another high school or not in my grade. For some reason my boss absolutely loved me and gleefully dubbed herself my “white mama”.

Somehow I made it all the way to senior year. For the most part I was still alone at lunch but by then it wasn’t that bad. I had my favorite teacher all year so I was ecstatic. Also many things had changed by then. I wasn’t completely a loner. I don’t know what it was about that last year but most everyone was friendlier with me. I guess since the end was approaching there was no point in not getting along. I played along; I didn’t really care either way. But it was kind of nice. And that was the year I first heard about Wake Forest, the place that would be home for the next 4 years. I wasn’t even thinking about college to be honest. I never even had plans to go. It just sorta fell into my lap and then everything just began snowballing from there. The trees pointed the way to the Forest.  And the rest is history.

People don’t get what they deserve, they get what they get. I felt so isolated for a long time because I was afraid of being seen for who I was.  But that’s another [totally gay] story. As I look back at these seemingly painful memories I realize that I don’t have to blame myself anymore for the things that happened.  It’s pointless. Doing so just re-opens old wounds allowing for re-infection. I need to let them heal. I’m only hurting myself if I don’t. I didn’t deserve to be alone, but that was the card I was dealt. I can’t change what happened but I can leave it be. Besides it was just as I had always wished, it was only temporary loneliness. Eventually the universe sent some amazing friends down my way.

Things may be a little hazy for me at the moment, but for some reason I’m not worried. No job, no money, no new friends in an unfamiliar town. Yup, that is a doozy. But I don’t care, because I know things aren’t always going to be that way. All those things will come with time. I just need to be ready. I may still be a loser, but I’ll be a prepared loser this time.

the light through the trees

Mondays and Wednesdays I get up at six (actually my body clock has generally timed itself to wake up at this hour on other days as well) to catch the shuttle bus to get to the school I’m teaching at.  The shuttle leaves not from my own university, but its sister university about 3 miles away.  Mondays I take a cab because in the afternoon I have to rush back to campus for a class, but Wednesdays I have resolved to ride my bike.  3 miles doesn’t seem that bad, but at six in the morning with the dust and bumpy roads, it’s not the most pleasant thing.  The ten minute cab ride would cost me about $2.50, the same price as CTA fare in Chicago, but for the sake of the environment and for the sake of a little dose of bitterness, I take my Wednesday morning rides as a payment for my good fortune.

Waking up this early also means eating lunch and dinner and going to bed early.  The cafeteria here is open by 11 for lunch and quite empty after about 12:30.  There are lots of booths and tons and tons of dishes, all lined up in what I suppose I will describe as large tin troughs, and served to you in a tin tray by a matter-of-fact employee holding a long-handled ladle.  The usual is two scoops of rice, two dishes, and a soup that’s probably not worth it.  The school here does really good 小笼包, a steamed dumpling with soup in it, and I like the Korean booth too.  The cafeteria is pretty enormous, so the lighting in many places is rather dim, the seats wobbly, and the general environment kind of dingy and maybe a little socialist-looking, plus orange televisions hanging from the ceiling (I get the sense that television is a staple distraction in public places, including buses and trains).  Eating, though so highly valued by most Chinese, seems to be taken as a task in this environment rather than a pleasure.  I often find myself to be the last one eating among Chinese classmates for whom dinner conversation seems to stop once the trays are licked clean.

Some afternoons I go to the Center for American Studies after class to take a nap (after all, lunch break goes until 1:30), but I usually have to ask the guard on duty if it’s ok to take a table or sit a while.  Of course he always says yes, but the fact that I even have to ask reminds me that public spaces are not really public in China.  I get the sense that you have to have a reason for being where you are, or else you need to be somewhere else.  Coming and going as one pleases does not exist.  Same goes for my dorm, in which all guests must register with ID and residents, too, if they come back after midnight.  This kind of population control seems inconvenient to me, but I think most Chinese take it as a comfort of safety and orderliness.

Why are all universities’ cafeterias closed on Sunday night?

I’m going to Google it, but I figure my readers are even smarter than Google.

(No real reason I’m asking.  It just came up this past weekend, and we didn’t have an answer.)

One of the walls at the western end of the cafeteria floor is adorned with a collage made up of views of the University campus. (I’ll get a photo of that one day.) The rest of the cafeteria of the Fraser Building is decorated with collages and mirrors on one side, and by natural light on the other side. This is to illustrate that the building is not only pretty on the outside, but a lot of effort has gone in to the decoration of the interior too. And yes, that’s a third type of chair found in the cafeteria. There’s at least one more kind of chair to be found on this floor, but you’re going to have to look for it yourself.

With that I end this week of featuring the winner of October’s poll on which is the nicest building at Glasgow University. The first full week of December will be spend celebrating the reluctant winner of November’s poll on finding the ugliest building at Glasgow University. If you haven’t cast your vote yet, you can do so on the right-hand panel of this blog, or by going here. You can find more posts about the Fraser Building here.

[Poll #6: What is the UGLIEST BUILDING at Glasgow University?]
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© 2009 GlasgowUniPhoto.com

The second important function of the Fraser Building is to serve as a central cafeteria for students on campus, one of many on campus. The Fraser Building’s ‘Food For Thought’ is open from 8.30am for breakfast and from 11.30am to 2.30pm for lunch. As for offerings:

The Chef’s Theatre will offer meals cooked to order from the wok station, baked potatoes and baguettes will be filled to order from the Natural Choice counter, and you can expect good value daily offers, including a vegan choice, from Core Cuisine. Soup Station will have a home-made vegan option to enjoy in the restaurant or to take away.

There’s also a takeaway food station aptly named ‘Food To Go’, open from 8am until 7.30pm from Monday to Thursday and Friday until 4.30pm. It might one of a number of places to eat on campus, as I mentioned above, but because of it’s central location (entrance directly opposite the library’s main doors), the 400 seats inside are often packed to capacity. Or at the very least it’s always full when I’m trying to find a seat.

You can find more posts about the Fraser Building here.

[Poll #6: What is the UGLIEST BUILDING at Glasgow University?]
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© 2009 GlasgowUniPhoto.com

DANNY DELEON ‘11

Sniff! Sniff! The cafeteria on Monday morning smelt like burnt bagels. A warm cozy thickness of air hugged my cold body as I entered the newly modified cafeteria. For as long I have been at Beaver, the cafeteria has had a certain look. The ice box full of heavenly tasting ice cream was located directly to the right as one walked in. The metallic buffet style stands were always directly to the right of the entrance. Staring back at whoever stood at the two heavy cafeteria doors, the student body was there, eating, talking, and enjoying the sense of home provided by Beaver’s little dining hall. To many students, the dining hall was one way and was always going to be a certain way. As of last Monday, the dining hall took on a new look. There was no longer that sense of comfort and home; it was more of a feeling that can only be described as “change.” It was like walking into your house and seeing your sofa on the other side of the living room.

Change is good, but in many cases it can take a while getting used to it. The new look of the cafeteria is great. Sophisticated, black countertop buffet stands complement the black chairs. The new arrangement of tables gives the Beaver dining hall a bigger and more spacious look. The aggravating traffic jams before lunches are no longer as clogged as they have been in the past. It’s a quick wait, and in a short time, one can sit and enjoy the tasty meal prepared by the kitchen staff.

The one new acquirement that may not take long getting used to is the explosion over taste buds provided by the citrus peach juice. Even a description of fireworks of citrus flavor and rivers of tasty peach inundating the taste buds of one’s mouth does it no justice. If you’re having a rough day, delight yourself to the best juice in Beaver history. It can surely cheer you up. Next time you walk over to the juice machines, consider picking this new citrus peach juice over the usual OJ or apple juice we all love. This new edition to our juice selection can quickly become unanimously loved by the entire school.

Past and present ruminations about what is and isn’t a photograph have been a source of frustration for me. For one, people can draw whatever lines they wish to determine the point at which manipulation tricks out a photograph and thus qualifies it as photo-illustration. And for another, as Errol Morris keeps banging on about, ALL photography is lies (and manipulation).

These debates are not about truth. Interventions – power relations, habit, photographic custom, complicity among subjects, props, political agendas (and framing), cropping, tweaking of exposure levels before and after development, digital alterations – mean that photography can never be, will never be truthful.

People forget that often it is the ingenious tricks that have spurred the largest wonder among viewing public – think Oscar Rejlander’s Two Ways of Life, Spirit Photography and – in a different sense – Ansel Adams’ Zone System.

It is therefore, with some relief that an artist like Azzarella comes along using photo-manipulation as the tactic and purpose for his work.

Last week, I questioned Anton Kratochvil’s Homage to Abu Ghraib, mainly because I think it makes little contribution to the discourse on the political aesthetics of Abu Ghraib. The blurry references to torture in Kratochvil’s images are in response only to a personal, conscious and willing point of view. I understand that Kratochvil’s work was an exercise in self-therapy but that shouldn’t stop me comparing it to Azzarella’s broader concerns about more general and unconscious reactions to well-circulated images.

If I w re to wr t th s sent nce wi h lette s m ss ng, you can still read it. The human brain is a wonderful instrument drawing on past experience to quickly filter out the non-possibilities. Just as the brain instantaneously deciphers gaps in text so it does with gaps in images.

With every passing hour the Spectacle suffuses itself further. It isn’t so much us reading images but images reading us. Our involuntary responses to images are predictable, predicted, precoded. The redacted action of violence in Azzarella’s pictures plays second fiddle to the original image, for it is the original image we drooled over and devoured.

The hooded detainee, dead student, wailing child or falling soldier needn’t even be present; our internal, emotional feedback spun by these images will forever be the same. We fill in the gaps and short circuit to prescribed disgust, sadness and politics, thus confirming our prevailing bias.

Azzarella’s works expose the fraud in us all … and our cheapened, robotic response to image.

ALL IMAGES © JOSH AZZARELLA. FROM TOP TO BOTTOM: UNTITLED #13 (AHSF); UNTITLED (SSG FREDERICK); UNTITLED #24 (GREEN GLOVES); UNTITLED #35 (CAFETERIA); UNTITLED #39 (265); UNTITLED #20 TRANG BANG; UNTITLED #43 (PAR115311).