Sometimes I wonder if I work at an English school or a branch of the Berlin Tourist Information Centre.
Take the 3rd of September for instance.
Within half an hour that afternoon, I was asked for directions by three separate tourists. The first was your standard backpacker couple: a Canadian couple, who were most impressed when I asked them where in Canada they were from, having figured that out from their accents. Credit for that to my sister's boyfriend, and various actual Canadian friends. Anyway, they wanted to get to a particular hostel, and were still more impressed when I told them the tram number, the time it would take to get there, and the stop name - all of which I only know because this particular hostel also happens to be an Australian-themed sports bar which broadcasts, among other things, the AFL Grand Final, and serves VB.
The second was an American couple, from Sacramento, California. They needed a post office, and also wanted to get to Checkpoint Charlie (about an hour's walk from our building, but about 8mins on the underground). I recommended they get the tram (which they insisted on calling a trolley-car) or walk to Friedrichstrasse station - about 15mins, then get the underground to Checkpoint Charlie - three stops, no changes required. The husband seemed quite happy with this, and began to move away, but the wife seemed to take my offer of information as an invitation to ask me more touristy questions than I had ever asked one single individual in my life. She seemed to consider me her personal Berlin travel consultant, and had me cornered outside the building for about 10mins, asking me about train connections to Potsdam from Zehlendorf where they were staying, about how much admission to the different theatres would cost, and if I would recommend watching movies in English at Potsdamer Platz.
I resisted the temptation to respond with a curt "Do I look like I work for Berlin tourist information?". My actual answers? 1 - no idea; check the BVG transport map. 2 - no idea; check the internet or ask the concierge at your hotel. 3 - no: too expensive - wait for the free inflight movie on the way home.
I then blatantly looked at my watch, glanced longingly (a rare occurrence) at the door of my office, and politely excused myself to return to work. He had long since got the point, and finally she did as well. Ah, freedom.
The third... the third was Chuck from Virginia, USA. Chuck would have been about the same age as my two grandfathers - mid 80s. Both of them are still very astute and intelligent individuals; age hasn't significantly affected their minds. If it weren't for the physical effects of aging, they and their respective wives would still be travelling around the world and having a marvellous time.
Chuck on the other hand... well, Chuck reminded me in many ways of some of the residents at the nursing home where my late great-grandmother spent the last six years of her life: barely able to comprehend a basic sentence, his reading skills all but gone, and very slow in his movements. He had been separated from his tour group, and having seen that we're an English school, figured that we could help him. Like the previous couple, he was supposed to be at Checkpoint Charlie. However, where I needed only a few moments to explain to them where to go to get the train and where to get off, Chuck could barely see where I was pointing to on the map I'd printed out from Google for him, let alone understand the process for buying a ticket for the train or which station he needed to look out for.
I was so tempted to walk him down to the train station, buy the ticket for him, and wait for the train, but unfortunately, I was actually supposed to be working. So I gave Chuck the map, wrote the station name on the map in large letters, and pointed him in the direction of the station.
I just hope he made it ok.
Lightbulb moments
Today was a brilliant day. Today, I had the rare opportunity of being reminded of exactly why I love to teach, and how much I miss teaching regularly.
It didn't start out that way. For the first five hours of my six hour shift, I was practically chained to the front desk - fielding calls, making appointments, answering questions, with brief sojourns into the kitchen to make coffee for clients.
At the start of the final hour, a colleague emerged from a meeting to relieve me - not a moment too soon. I had just got off the phone with a particularly challenging student, and in the ten minutes that she talked at me, six students had gathered at the reception counter demanding my immediate attention, a prospective client was asking for information on an English course, not to mention the incoming calls on the other line.
Five minutes of teamwork, and calm was restored. I seized the chance to escape from behind the desk, and headed into the back of the school to check the state of the main classroom. After refilling the pens and cleaning an explanation of possessive pronouns off the whiteboard, I ventured into the computer lab. Everything looked to be in order, and I was just about to leave when I heard my name being called.
I turned around, and saw the eager face of one of the newer students smiling at me over his computer."Hi, L. What's up?"
He was working on a grammar exercise practising the conditional mood, but despite having read the explanation and asking one of the other students for help, he still didn't understand. The memory of sitting in a university tutorial room in Clayton with two of my best friends trying to get our heads around the very same topic in German was still fresh enough in my mind that I could sympathise with his confusion, so I pulled a chair over, sat down next to him at his computer, and opened up the grammar book.
For the next fifteen minutes, we worked through the explanation and some of the activities. He seemed to be getting it, so when we got to the end of the page, I asked him to explain it back to me. To his amazement, he did it perfectly. When he finished, the look on his face is one that I will never forget. The golden moment of comprehension. The lightbulb moment. The "Aha!" moment. That expression was all the thanks I needed.
He looked at me, smiling, and said thank you. "No worries," I replied, and stood up, heading for the door. What happened next was the icing on the cake. The student he had previously asked for help had got up from her computer and was standing next to L; I heard her ask him in German to explain to her what I'd just explained to him, and you can imagine how proud I felt of him to hear him pass on the explanation.
That one fleeting moment made my day all that much better. The knowledge that I had been able to help a student understand something which previously had been a mystery to him, and seeing the realisation on his face when he discovered he had figured it out, was invaluable. It reminded me that regardless of the office politics, the problem students and the unrelenting chaos of the reception desk, the most rewarding thing about teaching for me is, and always will be, moments like that: having the opportunity to take the time to help a student understand that which was previously shrouded in mystery and confusion, and to use that feeling of achievement to encourage and motivate them to continue learning.
Those rare golden moments of realisation are the reason I teach. You can never see them coming, and you can go for days or even weeks without experiencing a moment like that, but when you do, for one blissful moment, it makes everything else seem trivial; somehow, it makes all the chaos, all the late nights and early mornings, and all your extra effort worthwhile.
Everyone wants their 15mins...
I think the population of Berlin is actually trying to make it into my blog. It seems that everywhere I go in the last week, people are actively entertaining me in order to feature in the superlative web publication that is Kangaroos in Deutschland.
Seriously, where do I start?
Maybe the coffee hawkers in the Ubahn? Two street kids in the Ubahn trying to sell me a 500g jar of Nestlé Gold for the bargain price of 4,- Euro (RRP 7.95). They even took the lid off and proudly displayed the in-tact golden foil seal. (Don’t worry – I didn’t buy it).
Or the "Äh, du Penner, du Opfer, ick ____ deine Mutter," Turkish kids, again in the Ubahn? (Non-German-speakers can use their imagination or Leo.org.) Seriously, some of the most interesting tales that this city has to tell happen in the subterranean maze of the train network.
This time, it was four Turkish teenagers having a full-on fight in the Ubahn… during which I unfortunately was occupying one of the two window seats in the group of seats they had chosen as the location of their very public difference of opinion. Great opportunities for studying Gastarbeiter Deutsch, and Neukölln slang… which the linguist in me would’ve wholeheartedly embraced and possibly noted down, had I not been trying to avoid all eye contact and not make any sudden moves.
No, I think the award for "Most Hardcore Berlin Experience of the Week" goes to my casual stroll through Hasenheide.
Exploring my new neighbourhood one idle Tuesday afternoon and ending up in a corner of the semi-infamous Hasenheide, an expansive park in the predominantly immigrant heart of Neukölln, with a reputation for being the narcotics supermarket of Berlin, watching the police and drug dealers play cat and mouse for half an hour, before making the decision to leave when I saw three police vans storm the park from all angles.
Yes, Neukölln is most definitely an interesting place to live.
Seriously, where do I start?
Maybe the coffee hawkers in the Ubahn? Two street kids in the Ubahn trying to sell me a 500g jar of Nestlé Gold for the bargain price of 4,- Euro (RRP 7.95). They even took the lid off and proudly displayed the in-tact golden foil seal. (Don’t worry – I didn’t buy it).
Or the "Äh, du Penner, du Opfer, ick ____ deine Mutter," Turkish kids, again in the Ubahn? (Non-German-speakers can use their imagination or Leo.org.) Seriously, some of the most interesting tales that this city has to tell happen in the subterranean maze of the train network.
This time, it was four Turkish teenagers having a full-on fight in the Ubahn… during which I unfortunately was occupying one of the two window seats in the group of seats they had chosen as the location of their very public difference of opinion. Great opportunities for studying Gastarbeiter Deutsch, and Neukölln slang… which the linguist in me would’ve wholeheartedly embraced and possibly noted down, had I not been trying to avoid all eye contact and not make any sudden moves.
No, I think the award for "Most Hardcore Berlin Experience of the Week" goes to my casual stroll through Hasenheide.
Exploring my new neighbourhood one idle Tuesday afternoon and ending up in a corner of the semi-infamous Hasenheide, an expansive park in the predominantly immigrant heart of Neukölln, with a reputation for being the narcotics supermarket of Berlin, watching the police and drug dealers play cat and mouse for half an hour, before making the decision to leave when I saw three police vans storm the park from all angles.
Yes, Neukölln is most definitely an interesting place to live.
More trouble with English...
And what did I tell you? Yes, “The Trouble with English” has a sequel.
Walking down the cleaning product aisle in a discount supermarket on an ordinary Wednesday afternoon, in an area of Berlin where the vast majority of residents are Turkish immigrants (just off Hermannplatz, Neukölln for those who know Berlin), I notice a Turkish guy, I’d guess in his mid 30s, standing in front of the toilet paper, muttering to himself and shaking his head. “Einfach unglaublich, wie viel das alles heuzutage kostet.” Translation not really necessary: mostly just complaining about prices, and just desperate for me to take the bait and show solidarity with him in the face of the international capitalist conspiracy against the average consumer.
And sure, he seems nice enough, but I'm not interested; I’d had a challenging day at work, was tired beyond belief, and completely not in the mood for small talk or being chatted up in front of the toilet paper.
I am however awake enough to remember that my t-shirt – out of pure coincidence – is a Gallipoli commemorative t-shirt with an Australian flag on the right side of the chest.
So I do it: I call his bluff, and play my foreigner trump card. “Sorry, I don’t, ich nicht speak Deutsch”, while inwardly cringing – even the most linguistically challenged could have managed better than that. But desperate times…
And you’d think I would have learned from Homeless Dude. Never judge a book…
“Oh, sorry. I thinked you is German. Where you come from? You live here, or on a holiday? That flag on your shirt is England, isn’t it? My cousin - ”
Bugger. Again.
This guy’s English was about the level of my Italian, but he had more front than Myers. Translated from Australian slang, that means he was damn confident. And someone with a little bit of language and a lot of confidence can be really, really annoying. He just wouldn’t shut up.
Eventually the topic of toilet paper led him into a conversational corner, which for some reason prompted him to share with me the contents of his shopping basket. Apples, Nutella, and black hair dye.
“How old are you thinking I looks today? Looks at mys hair. How old do you thinking I looks today?” Without waiting for an answer, he charges on. “Maybe 40, 45, I think I looks today, like old mans.”
Sure, he’s got a few stray grey hairs here and there. Whatever. Get to the point so I can get out of here.
“But tonight, I change – I will be young again, I will go to the bathroom – ”. I really don’t want to know any more; it’s at this point that I begin my retreat. I step past him as he continues, very obviously looking at my watch, and backing away from him towards the opposite end of the aisle. “Sorry, I really have to – ”
“Tomorrow,” he interrupts, continuing undaunted and taking a step towards me, “I look again 20 years!”
“Um, ok…” I'm now at the end of the aisle, and have again reached that point where I feel I've been subtle enough for long enough. I take a deep breath and spit it out before he can interrupt me. “I'msorrybutIhavetogo.”
Suddenly he gets that look on his face. That “sad puppy” look. And had he not invaded my perfectly alone shopping experience, I might have caved and forgiven him. But I was past the point of caring. Before I could give myself a chance to backpedal and untrample his feelings, I gave him a generic “you know how it is” smile and disappeared around the end of the aisle behind the fabric softener.
But I know without a doubt that I’ll try it again. The convenience of the linguistic “Get Out Of Jail Free Card” is irresistible. Besides, it either works like a charm or leads to great material for blog posts.
Walking down the cleaning product aisle in a discount supermarket on an ordinary Wednesday afternoon, in an area of Berlin where the vast majority of residents are Turkish immigrants (just off Hermannplatz, Neukölln for those who know Berlin), I notice a Turkish guy, I’d guess in his mid 30s, standing in front of the toilet paper, muttering to himself and shaking his head. “Einfach unglaublich, wie viel das alles heuzutage kostet.” Translation not really necessary: mostly just complaining about prices, and just desperate for me to take the bait and show solidarity with him in the face of the international capitalist conspiracy against the average consumer.
And sure, he seems nice enough, but I'm not interested; I’d had a challenging day at work, was tired beyond belief, and completely not in the mood for small talk or being chatted up in front of the toilet paper.
I am however awake enough to remember that my t-shirt – out of pure coincidence – is a Gallipoli commemorative t-shirt with an Australian flag on the right side of the chest.
So I do it: I call his bluff, and play my foreigner trump card. “Sorry, I don’t, ich nicht speak Deutsch”, while inwardly cringing – even the most linguistically challenged could have managed better than that. But desperate times…
And you’d think I would have learned from Homeless Dude. Never judge a book…
“Oh, sorry. I thinked you is German. Where you come from? You live here, or on a holiday? That flag on your shirt is England, isn’t it? My cousin - ”
Bugger. Again.
This guy’s English was about the level of my Italian, but he had more front than Myers. Translated from Australian slang, that means he was damn confident. And someone with a little bit of language and a lot of confidence can be really, really annoying. He just wouldn’t shut up.
Eventually the topic of toilet paper led him into a conversational corner, which for some reason prompted him to share with me the contents of his shopping basket. Apples, Nutella, and black hair dye.
“How old are you thinking I looks today? Looks at mys hair. How old do you thinking I looks today?” Without waiting for an answer, he charges on. “Maybe 40, 45, I think I looks today, like old mans.”
Sure, he’s got a few stray grey hairs here and there. Whatever. Get to the point so I can get out of here.
“But tonight, I change – I will be young again, I will go to the bathroom – ”. I really don’t want to know any more; it’s at this point that I begin my retreat. I step past him as he continues, very obviously looking at my watch, and backing away from him towards the opposite end of the aisle. “Sorry, I really have to – ”
“Tomorrow,” he interrupts, continuing undaunted and taking a step towards me, “I look again 20 years!”
“Um, ok…” I'm now at the end of the aisle, and have again reached that point where I feel I've been subtle enough for long enough. I take a deep breath and spit it out before he can interrupt me. “I'msorrybutIhavetogo.”
Suddenly he gets that look on his face. That “sad puppy” look. And had he not invaded my perfectly alone shopping experience, I might have caved and forgiven him. But I was past the point of caring. Before I could give myself a chance to backpedal and untrample his feelings, I gave him a generic “you know how it is” smile and disappeared around the end of the aisle behind the fabric softener.
But I know without a doubt that I’ll try it again. The convenience of the linguistic “Get Out Of Jail Free Card” is irresistible. Besides, it either works like a charm or leads to great material for blog posts.
Blue and Gold Addiction.
Sweden. Population just over 7 million. Currency: Swedish Krona. Member of the EU. Famous international exports include ABBA, Pippi Longstocking, H&M, a hilariously funky Muppet chef, magnificently tall blue-eyed blondes with wonderfully Swedish names like Astrid or Hjalmar, and surnames with cool accents and lots of 's' like Ångström or Påhlsson.
And Ikea.
That wonderfully addictive Swedish DIY paradise in its golden and blue magnificence. A magical world where perfect household organisation is only a Malmö wall-mounted storage system with in-built rail-mounted wire baskets and convenient hooks away, and all your interior design dreams would become blissful reality if only you could manage to put it together.
As most of you know, I've recently moved into a new flat. Well, a new share flat. The extent of the furniture in my room on arrival in that new flat included a loft bed frame, a bamboo lounge chair, an ancient armchair and a pair of wooden TV tables inherited from the previous resident of my room.
That was all the excuse I needed to venture to Tempelhof in southern Berlin, the closest of the three Ikea superstores. I even did a re-con visit, trekking across town one Friday night after work in the rain to obtain a copy of the renovator's bible, the coveted Ikea catalogue, in preparation for my planned excursion the following day.
Over a coffee the next morning, I perused the pages in search of bargains that not only would fit my extremely tight budget, but also turn my room from four walls and a floor into a living space.
Then that afternoon, I joined forces with my Berlin best friend and one of her flatmates, and together, the three of us took on the two-storeyed homeware haven of Ikea, Tempelhof.
The design ingenuity! The innovation combined with affordability! The coolness of bold colours and unpronounceable names! It’s an adult’s toystore!
We spent four hours there. I could have bought half the store. As it was, I had to show considerable restraint in only buying what I did. I mean, who can’t find a use for 100 tea candles for a few Euros, or a stylish yet reasonably priced wicker laundry basket, or a brightly coloured floor rug? On this particular visit however, I showed remarkable restraint in only buying a few things.
A mattress – clearly essential, considering the previous three nights I’d been sleeping on all of the winter clothes I had in Berlin carefully folded into a makeshift bed so that the wood of the base wouldn’t be so uncomfortable.
A desk – DIY of course. But considering my Lego skills as a child, and the fact that my reputation with a previous employer for assembling furniture faster than any other colleague led to my then-manager designating an hour per week on my roster to constructing display models of new stock, I knew I wouldn’t have a problem. Give me an Allen key and a Phillips head screwdriver, and I'm good to go.
The piece de resistance however, was my sofa bed. I’d had my eye on a few sofa beds advertised in Buy/Swap/Sell websites in Berlin, and I really wanted an Exarby. Comfy, cheap, and chic. But as it turned out, this store was out of stock. They did however have a fantastic alternative. Sign up for the Ikea loyalty card, and for the punishment of receiving the aforementioned renovator’s bible, otherwise known as the quarterly Ikea catalogue, conveniently delivered to your house, in addition to the occasional special offer email… you would get a €99 sofa bed for the bargain price of €49!!!
Yes, I bought it. And I love it.
Hello, my name’s Australis, and I'm an Ikea addict.
And Ikea.
That wonderfully addictive Swedish DIY paradise in its golden and blue magnificence. A magical world where perfect household organisation is only a Malmö wall-mounted storage system with in-built rail-mounted wire baskets and convenient hooks away, and all your interior design dreams would become blissful reality if only you could manage to put it together.
As most of you know, I've recently moved into a new flat. Well, a new share flat. The extent of the furniture in my room on arrival in that new flat included a loft bed frame, a bamboo lounge chair, an ancient armchair and a pair of wooden TV tables inherited from the previous resident of my room.
That was all the excuse I needed to venture to Tempelhof in southern Berlin, the closest of the three Ikea superstores. I even did a re-con visit, trekking across town one Friday night after work in the rain to obtain a copy of the renovator's bible, the coveted Ikea catalogue, in preparation for my planned excursion the following day.
Over a coffee the next morning, I perused the pages in search of bargains that not only would fit my extremely tight budget, but also turn my room from four walls and a floor into a living space.
Then that afternoon, I joined forces with my Berlin best friend and one of her flatmates, and together, the three of us took on the two-storeyed homeware haven of Ikea, Tempelhof.
The design ingenuity! The innovation combined with affordability! The coolness of bold colours and unpronounceable names! It’s an adult’s toystore!
We spent four hours there. I could have bought half the store. As it was, I had to show considerable restraint in only buying what I did. I mean, who can’t find a use for 100 tea candles for a few Euros, or a stylish yet reasonably priced wicker laundry basket, or a brightly coloured floor rug? On this particular visit however, I showed remarkable restraint in only buying a few things.
A mattress – clearly essential, considering the previous three nights I’d been sleeping on all of the winter clothes I had in Berlin carefully folded into a makeshift bed so that the wood of the base wouldn’t be so uncomfortable.
A desk – DIY of course. But considering my Lego skills as a child, and the fact that my reputation with a previous employer for assembling furniture faster than any other colleague led to my then-manager designating an hour per week on my roster to constructing display models of new stock, I knew I wouldn’t have a problem. Give me an Allen key and a Phillips head screwdriver, and I'm good to go.
The piece de resistance however, was my sofa bed. I’d had my eye on a few sofa beds advertised in Buy/Swap/Sell websites in Berlin, and I really wanted an Exarby. Comfy, cheap, and chic. But as it turned out, this store was out of stock. They did however have a fantastic alternative. Sign up for the Ikea loyalty card, and for the punishment of receiving the aforementioned renovator’s bible, otherwise known as the quarterly Ikea catalogue, conveniently delivered to your house, in addition to the occasional special offer email… you would get a €99 sofa bed for the bargain price of €49!!!
Yes, I bought it. And I love it.
Hello, my name’s Australis, and I'm an Ikea addict.
The trouble with English...
I have to admit, one of the things I love about being fluent in two languages and having skills in a further two is having the option to codeswitch, to switch into the another language and plead foreigner when people bug me – gypsies, beggars, salespeople, people handing out fliers on the street, or wanting you to sign their petition for/against [fill in the gap].
In Australia, it works like a charm – while Australians do learn languages at school, and the classics of French and the like feature, the focus is logically on Asian languages. On top of that, with the exception of people from non-English-speaking backgrounds, most people’s skills extend to a vague high school level and rarely any further. Brilliant.
In Germany, it doesn't work quite so well. Sometimes, yes, the pure shock of receiving a quick “No, thanks” to their casual icebreaker is enough to cut people off at the pass and they let you walk by. But other times I’m reminded that having English as my default switch language in Germany, or in the majority of countries in Europe, if not the world, does not have the same power that German does at home. Possibly because English is the most studied language on the planet (the often-quoted statistic that the number of native speakers of English is vastly outnumbered by the number of people learning English in China is astounding but true). By the way, my backups of French and Italian also often feature in people’s linguistic repertoire here – and their language level is almost always better than mine, so aside from the fact that my usual attire of jeans, Cons and a hoodie is nowhere near chic enough to pretend to be a Parisienne or a Florentine, I'm also linguistically out-skilled.
So the default switch remains English. And sure, sometimes you can get away with it – either because the other person’s English isn’t up to the level required or they just can’t be bothered to translate their sales pitch on the spot. Or because my Australian accent freaked them out a little.
Other times though, you weigh up the odds, and you decide to play that card, thereby calling someone’s bluff that they don’t speak English, or at least not enough to continue annoying you…
And it blows up in your face, usually in a rather spectacular fashion.
Example 1. Mid July, 2008. Sitting at a pavement table with a good friend of mine in Berlin at a cheap burger place in Kreuzberg, a very “uni student” area (cheap, alternative, and just a little grotty), happily chatting away in English over some delicious potato wedges, mayo and ketchup.
Enter random homeless guy.
He’s holding his beer as if someone might try to wrench it from his grasp at any moment, smells like a brewery and looks like he hasn’t showered in months, possibly years, but his German is remarkably non-slurred. He stands at one end of our table and starts making small talk with us – complaining about something or other, and just begging for us to start a conversation with him. Neither of us are really interested, and after politely nodding and smiling and making small talk with him in German for a few minutes, we switch back to English and continue our own conversation, hoping he’ll take this as a subtle “Please go away” signal.
He doesn't. To our horror, he takes a seat and follows our lead, switching to surprisingly fluent English. Turns out this guy lived in England for a good few years, studied at some university there (Oxford comes to mind, but I can’t remember exactly), and apparently retained his language skills.
Bugger.
For the next twenty minutes or so, we are subjected to his ramblings on all manner of topics which he thought essential to discuss with us, including an apparent dislike of America. Oh, and he also decided to bring up the Australian government’s treatment of the Aboriginal community, which he then compared to the slave trade in America. It was obvious that he had very little information about the situation or the history, and I ceased talking to him at this stage. He continued talking to, or rather at, my friend for a while, insulting America all the way. By the way, she’s American, which he knew.
We kept hoping he’d run out of steam and leave of his own accord, but he never seemed to. So, as soon as we’d finished our beers, we bid him goodnight (yeah, we’re too polite and subtle for our own good – need to learn some of that German directness), and made a run for it. He got up after us, and made a move to follow us for a few minutes, but fortunately we wove our way through the evening pedestrian traffic on Oranienstrasse and lost him.
I have no doubt that this will not be the last blog post on the dilemmas of code switching into English. Stay tuned…
In Australia, it works like a charm – while Australians do learn languages at school, and the classics of French and the like feature, the focus is logically on Asian languages. On top of that, with the exception of people from non-English-speaking backgrounds, most people’s skills extend to a vague high school level and rarely any further. Brilliant.
In Germany, it doesn't work quite so well. Sometimes, yes, the pure shock of receiving a quick “No, thanks” to their casual icebreaker is enough to cut people off at the pass and they let you walk by. But other times I’m reminded that having English as my default switch language in Germany, or in the majority of countries in Europe, if not the world, does not have the same power that German does at home. Possibly because English is the most studied language on the planet (the often-quoted statistic that the number of native speakers of English is vastly outnumbered by the number of people learning English in China is astounding but true). By the way, my backups of French and Italian also often feature in people’s linguistic repertoire here – and their language level is almost always better than mine, so aside from the fact that my usual attire of jeans, Cons and a hoodie is nowhere near chic enough to pretend to be a Parisienne or a Florentine, I'm also linguistically out-skilled.
So the default switch remains English. And sure, sometimes you can get away with it – either because the other person’s English isn’t up to the level required or they just can’t be bothered to translate their sales pitch on the spot. Or because my Australian accent freaked them out a little.
Other times though, you weigh up the odds, and you decide to play that card, thereby calling someone’s bluff that they don’t speak English, or at least not enough to continue annoying you…
And it blows up in your face, usually in a rather spectacular fashion.
Example 1. Mid July, 2008. Sitting at a pavement table with a good friend of mine in Berlin at a cheap burger place in Kreuzberg, a very “uni student” area (cheap, alternative, and just a little grotty), happily chatting away in English over some delicious potato wedges, mayo and ketchup.
Enter random homeless guy.
He’s holding his beer as if someone might try to wrench it from his grasp at any moment, smells like a brewery and looks like he hasn’t showered in months, possibly years, but his German is remarkably non-slurred. He stands at one end of our table and starts making small talk with us – complaining about something or other, and just begging for us to start a conversation with him. Neither of us are really interested, and after politely nodding and smiling and making small talk with him in German for a few minutes, we switch back to English and continue our own conversation, hoping he’ll take this as a subtle “Please go away” signal.
He doesn't. To our horror, he takes a seat and follows our lead, switching to surprisingly fluent English. Turns out this guy lived in England for a good few years, studied at some university there (Oxford comes to mind, but I can’t remember exactly), and apparently retained his language skills.
Bugger.
For the next twenty minutes or so, we are subjected to his ramblings on all manner of topics which he thought essential to discuss with us, including an apparent dislike of America. Oh, and he also decided to bring up the Australian government’s treatment of the Aboriginal community, which he then compared to the slave trade in America. It was obvious that he had very little information about the situation or the history, and I ceased talking to him at this stage. He continued talking to, or rather at, my friend for a while, insulting America all the way. By the way, she’s American, which he knew.
We kept hoping he’d run out of steam and leave of his own accord, but he never seemed to. So, as soon as we’d finished our beers, we bid him goodnight (yeah, we’re too polite and subtle for our own good – need to learn some of that German directness), and made a run for it. He got up after us, and made a move to follow us for a few minutes, but fortunately we wove our way through the evening pedestrian traffic on Oranienstrasse and lost him.
I have no doubt that this will not be the last blog post on the dilemmas of code switching into English. Stay tuned…
Reflections on the year
It’s amazing how a few months can completely change you.
Take today. Got home from work, and for some reason decided the mountain of papers I had dumped on the black wooden TV table I had inherited from a previous resident of my share flat could no longer remain there. So over pasta and Lidl’s attempt at bolognese sauce, I got comfy on my new Ikea discount sofa, and I began to sort them.
There was all kinds of stuff in there – photos of my family and my friends, postcards from Turkey, Morocco, most of eastern Europe and many other places, brief pages of scribbled dot-point notes which had since turned into lesson plans for my jungle-like year 9 classes, CDs people burnt for me, official-looking letters from German companies calling me “Frau _____ ” (or, more often that not, “Herr ____ ”: I don’t get it – my first name is not exactly uncommon in Germany) and handwritten ones from both of my grandmothers in Australia (the latter being a much more welcome sight in my letterbox than the former)… and a stack of notebook pages covered with scribbled diary entries from the last year.
It’s been just on a year since I moved here. Never been away from Australia that long before. And it’s going to get up to 18 months before I get back home. And in the last year, a whole lot has gone down – old friends, heaps and heaps of new friends, new accommodation times three, getting used to calling one of the most vibrant and lively cities in the world my home, and a hell of a lot of travelling.
I guess my point is just how much I love the way travel changes you. How much you learn about your world and about yourself. And it doesn't matter if you’re backpacking through former Soviet states or remote villages of northern Africa, or living and working in a vibrant European capital. Main thing is being away from what you’re used to, and becoming completely self-reliant – knowing that your family isn’t just around the corner. Actually, that home, family and most of your friends are just about as far away as physically possible while remaining on this planet.
You’re on your own – flying free, and without a safety net, and while it can be really scary at first, the feeling discovering you have what it takes to make a life for yourself overseas, and to make it work, is its own reward.
Hope I'm this cool when I'm 80.
Funkiness and octogenerians don't have to be mutually exclusive.
I think this could only happen in Berlin though. The city where you could wear anything at all, and you would fit in. Seriously, anything goes here. Emo, goth, punk, street übercool, preppy, don't-care, fashionista/fashion victim, indie, bohemian. Or a mix of all of them. All at once. I haven't seen that in any other city. Ok, yes, I have seen all of that in other cities, but not all at once, and not without some strange looks and negative comments from passers-by.
Anyways, to the point. U Bahn Johannisthaler Chaussee, south-eastern Berlin, 13.45 today. I'm on the way to my local WiFi cafe. I get off the bus, head down to the platform, and join the throng of people waiting for the train, passing the time by surfing through tracks on my iriver, day-dreaming and people-watching...
I glance toward the stairs coming down from the street above, and see a pair of stockinged feet in navy Chuck Taylors. Nothing unusual. I turn my head the other way, then look back a moment later. Walking past me is a grey-haired lady around my grandmother's age, immaculately dressed in a scarlet red jacket and skirt, a complementary silk scarf around her neck, her jewellery and makeup elegant and stylish.
And navy Chuck Taylors on her feet.
As she walks further down the platform, she attracts the attention of most of the others on the platform. Some raise their eyebrows, others nudge the person beside them and subtly (or not so subtly) point.
I, like the others, watch her continue down the platform. Yet unlike the others, mine is an expression of deep admiration and respect.
I can only hope that I'm that cool when I'm 80. You go, Oma.
I think this could only happen in Berlin though. The city where you could wear anything at all, and you would fit in. Seriously, anything goes here. Emo, goth, punk, street übercool, preppy, don't-care, fashionista/fashion victim, indie, bohemian. Or a mix of all of them. All at once. I haven't seen that in any other city. Ok, yes, I have seen all of that in other cities, but not all at once, and not without some strange looks and negative comments from passers-by.
Anyways, to the point. U Bahn Johannisthaler Chaussee, south-eastern Berlin, 13.45 today. I'm on the way to my local WiFi cafe. I get off the bus, head down to the platform, and join the throng of people waiting for the train, passing the time by surfing through tracks on my iriver, day-dreaming and people-watching...
I glance toward the stairs coming down from the street above, and see a pair of stockinged feet in navy Chuck Taylors. Nothing unusual. I turn my head the other way, then look back a moment later. Walking past me is a grey-haired lady around my grandmother's age, immaculately dressed in a scarlet red jacket and skirt, a complementary silk scarf around her neck, her jewellery and makeup elegant and stylish.
And navy Chuck Taylors on her feet.
As she walks further down the platform, she attracts the attention of most of the others on the platform. Some raise their eyebrows, others nudge the person beside them and subtly (or not so subtly) point.
I, like the others, watch her continue down the platform. Yet unlike the others, mine is an expression of deep admiration and respect.
I can only hope that I'm that cool when I'm 80. You go, Oma.
Warm summer nights on Berlin balconies...
This is one of the many things that I absolutely love about summer in Europe – the happy middle ground between an English and an Australian summer. The sun definitely has some warmth and strength in it, but you can quite happily sit in the sun for hours without frying; unlike in Australia, it’s not enough to enslave the general populus to air-conditioning to escape daytime highs in excess of 40°C and then force them into seasonal insomnia due to overnight lows only a few degrees under 30°C.
Today, for example, I spent mostly on my balcony, chilling out, reading up on the complexities of English grammar and pitying all those who had to do real work. I had both windows and the door open, I turned my speakers to face the balcony, took my laptop outside and inflicted the entire neighbourhood with my “Road Less Travelled” playlist while I was working: mostly the stuff that I've got from a variety of sources but hadn’t had a chance to listen to. Among the artists? Tocotronic, Die Ärzte (their new album and a lot of their back catalogue), Die Toten Hosen, The Wombats, The Decemberists, The National, Vampire Weekend, Interpol, The Hoosiers and Sunrise Avenue. Eclectic, I know.
I did venture down the road to Aldi around 7pm for salad ingredients, then returned to the balcony to eat a home-made spinach pizza with a crunchy salad while watching “Traumschiff Surprise” on DVD as the sun slowly made its way toward the north-western horizon, leaving the sky streaked with a thousand and one shades of pink, orange and red. It’s currently 10.30pm, and it is just now getting dark, and the night chorus of cicadas is starting up, although not to the volume that we’re accustomed to in Melbourne.
I love Berlin, I love summer, and I really love summer in Berlin.
Today, for example, I spent mostly on my balcony, chilling out, reading up on the complexities of English grammar and pitying all those who had to do real work. I had both windows and the door open, I turned my speakers to face the balcony, took my laptop outside and inflicted the entire neighbourhood with my “Road Less Travelled” playlist while I was working: mostly the stuff that I've got from a variety of sources but hadn’t had a chance to listen to. Among the artists? Tocotronic, Die Ärzte (their new album and a lot of their back catalogue), Die Toten Hosen, The Wombats, The Decemberists, The National, Vampire Weekend, Interpol, The Hoosiers and Sunrise Avenue. Eclectic, I know.
I did venture down the road to Aldi around 7pm for salad ingredients, then returned to the balcony to eat a home-made spinach pizza with a crunchy salad while watching “Traumschiff Surprise” on DVD as the sun slowly made its way toward the north-western horizon, leaving the sky streaked with a thousand and one shades of pink, orange and red. It’s currently 10.30pm, and it is just now getting dark, and the night chorus of cicadas is starting up, although not to the volume that we’re accustomed to in Melbourne.
I love Berlin, I love summer, and I really love summer in Berlin.
The Middle
There is this one song that I absolutely love. I just heard it on the radio in Hamburg, about an hour before the end of my last shift here, and before I head over to my beloved Berlin tonight. It’s by a relatively unknown (in Australia anyway) group from Arizona in the USA, and the first time I heard it, I loved it. I loved it so much I bought the album, which I also loved, so much so that I have since bought their entire back catalogue, and seen them live recently. I was not disappointed. This first album happened to be their best ever album, as acknowledged by many of their other fans, not just by me.
This one song though, I absolutely love. It’s so positive. The other reason I love it is because somehow, I only ever hear it on days that something very significantly positive is happening. And no, it’s not because I hear the song that I imagine the rest of the day to be positive.
Example 1: I get into my car in late 2001 after handing in a philosophy essay that had taken me weeks and weeks to write, although it was only worth a minor percentage of the final assessment. Philosophy was a subject that I really loved, but just didn’t come easily to me; I put in the work because I enjoy figuring things out. Anyway, I get into the car after having handed it in, turn on the radio, and I hear this song immediately. Two weeks later I get my grade for the essay: a High Distinction and a commendation from the head of department.
Example 2: I got home from uni one afternoon in 2004, turned on the radio, and this song gets played. I’m instantly in a brilliant mood, and I go to open my mail. I find an acceptance letter for a program to go to Germany for a year and teach English in a high school there as an assistant.
Example 3: I head into the foreigners’ office in Berlin, Germany, to get my Working Holiday visa. I’ve been listening to the radio all the way in, and I’m sick of it. I turn on the 100% shuffle mode on my MP3 – this creates a random playlist of all the songs in my MP3, regardless of the number of times songs have been played. The first song I hear, just before my number is called – yes, this song. And the visa? I get it, with no problems, and the surprise here - less than 2hrs waiting time!
Example 4: and now, just as I'm preparing to leave Hamburg, of course, I hear this song.
The song is “The Middle” by Jimmy Eat World, and I completely love it.
This one song though, I absolutely love. It’s so positive. The other reason I love it is because somehow, I only ever hear it on days that something very significantly positive is happening. And no, it’s not because I hear the song that I imagine the rest of the day to be positive.
Example 1: I get into my car in late 2001 after handing in a philosophy essay that had taken me weeks and weeks to write, although it was only worth a minor percentage of the final assessment. Philosophy was a subject that I really loved, but just didn’t come easily to me; I put in the work because I enjoy figuring things out. Anyway, I get into the car after having handed it in, turn on the radio, and I hear this song immediately. Two weeks later I get my grade for the essay: a High Distinction and a commendation from the head of department.
Example 2: I got home from uni one afternoon in 2004, turned on the radio, and this song gets played. I’m instantly in a brilliant mood, and I go to open my mail. I find an acceptance letter for a program to go to Germany for a year and teach English in a high school there as an assistant.
Example 3: I head into the foreigners’ office in Berlin, Germany, to get my Working Holiday visa. I’ve been listening to the radio all the way in, and I’m sick of it. I turn on the 100% shuffle mode on my MP3 – this creates a random playlist of all the songs in my MP3, regardless of the number of times songs have been played. The first song I hear, just before my number is called – yes, this song. And the visa? I get it, with no problems, and the surprise here - less than 2hrs waiting time!
Example 4: and now, just as I'm preparing to leave Hamburg, of course, I hear this song.
The song is “The Middle” by Jimmy Eat World, and I completely love it.
The Winds Of Change
The winds of change are in the air. Still in Hamburg, and still plodding along at work, but two events have taken place, which resulted in an admission of error and a decision to make a change to fix that error.
Event number 1 - a weekend sailing on the Baltic with some of my Berlin friends. Possibly the best way to chill and clear your head in northern Germany - or anywhere, for that matter. Sea air, good friends, German beer, northern German dice games at 1am, some good conversation, and a few days away from Hamburg and work - ah, bliss. Also inspiration from Harold and Maude to not worry so much about what other people think of you.
Event number 2 - one of these friends told me something that I had actually known subconsciously for a long time: I think too much. I over-analyse things. And not just the life-changing, monumental issues - the tiny stuff, that in a matter of weeks, days, or in many instances, hours, will have been long relegated to the file "Not worth remembering".
This leads me to a question: am I alone here? How many of you actually nodded in sympathetic agreement whilst reading the above admission? Changing my FB status alone to reflect this new mindset of "less thinking, more doing" resulted in a wall post and an instant message within half an hour. I welcome your comments.
Event 1 + Event 2 = Result: I am moving back to Berlin. Soon - within a fortnight. Reasons vary: work, friends & (substitute) family, and instinct/gut feeling/mindset.
First, the job is not at all what I thought it would be. I'm not someone who enjoys working completely alone. I need to have people around me both at work and in general with a similarly positive and enthusiastic outlook, for mutual motivation and support. I am also someone with ambition and direction. I need to know that both myself and the company I work for are going somewhere, that what I do at work actually has a purpose in the grand scheme of things. Hamburg doesn't fit the bill for me at the moment.
Second, my friends and one of my German families are in Berlin, and I truly miss them. Fair enough, I've only been in Hamburg for three weeks, which is definitely not enough to create a friendship group here, but I already have a circle of friends in Berlin, which is enough of a reason for me to seriously consider going back.
Third - I'm in a Berlin state of mind, to quote Mr Joel. I'm not finished with that city, and I want to maximise my time there. It's an incredible city and I feel just as much at home there as I do in my native Melbourne. Sounds strange to most of you, but I know at least Blonde Canadian knows how I feel. I need to go back there.
So, it will be "Goodbye Hamburg - nice knowing you", and a reunion with my beloved Berlin next weekend. That prospect alone is already giving me the motivation to continue through this week.
I'll keep you posted.
Event number 1 - a weekend sailing on the Baltic with some of my Berlin friends. Possibly the best way to chill and clear your head in northern Germany - or anywhere, for that matter. Sea air, good friends, German beer, northern German dice games at 1am, some good conversation, and a few days away from Hamburg and work - ah, bliss. Also inspiration from Harold and Maude to not worry so much about what other people think of you.
Event number 2 - one of these friends told me something that I had actually known subconsciously for a long time: I think too much. I over-analyse things. And not just the life-changing, monumental issues - the tiny stuff, that in a matter of weeks, days, or in many instances, hours, will have been long relegated to the file "Not worth remembering".
This leads me to a question: am I alone here? How many of you actually nodded in sympathetic agreement whilst reading the above admission? Changing my FB status alone to reflect this new mindset of "less thinking, more doing" resulted in a wall post and an instant message within half an hour. I welcome your comments.
Event 1 + Event 2 = Result: I am moving back to Berlin. Soon - within a fortnight. Reasons vary: work, friends & (substitute) family, and instinct/gut feeling/mindset.
First, the job is not at all what I thought it would be. I'm not someone who enjoys working completely alone. I need to have people around me both at work and in general with a similarly positive and enthusiastic outlook, for mutual motivation and support. I am also someone with ambition and direction. I need to know that both myself and the company I work for are going somewhere, that what I do at work actually has a purpose in the grand scheme of things. Hamburg doesn't fit the bill for me at the moment.
Second, my friends and one of my German families are in Berlin, and I truly miss them. Fair enough, I've only been in Hamburg for three weeks, which is definitely not enough to create a friendship group here, but I already have a circle of friends in Berlin, which is enough of a reason for me to seriously consider going back.
Third - I'm in a Berlin state of mind, to quote Mr Joel. I'm not finished with that city, and I want to maximise my time there. It's an incredible city and I feel just as much at home there as I do in my native Melbourne. Sounds strange to most of you, but I know at least Blonde Canadian knows how I feel. I need to go back there.
So, it will be "Goodbye Hamburg - nice knowing you", and a reunion with my beloved Berlin next weekend. That prospect alone is already giving me the motivation to continue through this week.
I'll keep you posted.
The flatmate
I am the first to admit that I have never lived in a share flat before - in Germany, they're known as WGs. Well, not for longer than a month anyway. I've seen my fair share though from hanging out with friends in Berlin, and crashing on various couches - from small WGs with only one or two flatmates, to the relatively huge, with up to five flatmates. I've heard about a lot of different styles of flatmate, from the socialites to the hermits, from the cleaning freaks to the slobs, and everything in between.
My new flatmate though - strictly temporary, so don't get all worked up that I haven't yet sent a Hamburg address out to everyone - is... well, interesting. He's about in his mid 30s, I think, Bangladeshi, and works the afternoon/night shift in a restaurant on the harbour in Hamburg. He cooks a lot of curry - understandable, being from that area - but the way I knew wasn't by him telling me. Rather, by the yellow stains in the kitchen. Not just around the stove from the night before. No. These are stains that have been there for months, if not years. I know - I tried to scrub, and started to destroy my fingers before making any impact on the stains. And it's not just a few. They're all over the stove, on the rangehood, on the counter, on the side of the fridge adjacent to the stove, on all of the light-coloured utensils, and on the bottom of all of the crockery.
And then there's the cutlery. Most people use the cutlery drawer, some people use a cutlery dispenser or a rotating hanging contraption for their forks, spoons, etc. No. In this flat, there is a bucket half full with water on the kitchen floor: every utensil in the kitchen was in this bucket of water when I came into the kitchen to cook on the first night I was there. No idea if they're clean or dirty or somewhere in between. I removed my jewellery from my right hand, gritted my teeth and reached in to grab some essentials: one fork, one sharp knife, one wooden spoon, and a normal spoon. None of the crockery matches, so after having washed all four of these carefully with hot water, detergent and a scourer, I put them in the drawer and made note of their identifying marks.
Like I said, this place is temporary.
My new flatmate though - strictly temporary, so don't get all worked up that I haven't yet sent a Hamburg address out to everyone - is... well, interesting. He's about in his mid 30s, I think, Bangladeshi, and works the afternoon/night shift in a restaurant on the harbour in Hamburg. He cooks a lot of curry - understandable, being from that area - but the way I knew wasn't by him telling me. Rather, by the yellow stains in the kitchen. Not just around the stove from the night before. No. These are stains that have been there for months, if not years. I know - I tried to scrub, and started to destroy my fingers before making any impact on the stains. And it's not just a few. They're all over the stove, on the rangehood, on the counter, on the side of the fridge adjacent to the stove, on all of the light-coloured utensils, and on the bottom of all of the crockery.
And then there's the cutlery. Most people use the cutlery drawer, some people use a cutlery dispenser or a rotating hanging contraption for their forks, spoons, etc. No. In this flat, there is a bucket half full with water on the kitchen floor: every utensil in the kitchen was in this bucket of water when I came into the kitchen to cook on the first night I was there. No idea if they're clean or dirty or somewhere in between. I removed my jewellery from my right hand, gritted my teeth and reached in to grab some essentials: one fork, one sharp knife, one wooden spoon, and a normal spoon. None of the crockery matches, so after having washed all four of these carefully with hot water, detergent and a scourer, I put them in the drawer and made note of their identifying marks.
Like I said, this place is temporary.
Germans and their Vegemite
I have no doubt that this will be a continuing series. Here's number two - Germans and their Vegemite.
The phone rings on an average Tuesday afternoon.
"How can I help you?" I ask politely after announcing the company name.
"Good afternoon. Do you have Vegemite?" In German, and of course straight to the point.
"Unfortunately we are completely out of stock of Vegemite at the moment, but we are expecting - "
"When will you get more Vegemite?"
Well, if you'd let me finish the first time... I take a deep breath. He's obviously one of those customers. "We're expecting a delivery by the end of the week."
"Do you have Marmite?"
I couldn't believe he asked. Such a poor substitute, but if you're not Australian, you usually don't notice the subtle difference in flavour. Short answer is "Yes, at the moment we have three jars of Marmite in stock."
"Is that all?"
Sorry, I forgot to mention the two thousand jars we've got in reserve in a warehouse in downtown Hamburg... okay, a little heavy on the sarcasm. "Yes, that's all we have for the moment. How many would you like?"
"I am the catering director of a cruise ship currently docked in Hamburg, and I need thirty-six jars of Vegemite."
"Well, we don't have any in stock at the moment, but I'm sure if you would like to give me a contact phone number, I can call the owner of the store and we could arrange a special order for you."
"We sail out on Friday. Can they be delivered by Thursday night?"
Ok, one second. First - I don't know where to start. Thirty-six jars of Vegemite? Even your average Coles Supermarket in Australia would rarely have that much stock on hand at any one time. But a small import business in Hamburg, catering predominantly for the niche expat market? No way, Jose. And all of this by Friday? Sorry, Thursday, ready for departure Friday morning? You've got better chances of a free return ticket on the next shuttle to the moon.
I am rather more careful with my words than that, and I inform Mr Caterer Extraordinaire that unfortunately that just isn't possible, as shipping from Australia alone can take up to ten weeks. He's rather displeased with this and wishes me a pleasant day. I hope he's not like that with all of his suppliers, for his company's sake.
The phone rings on an average Tuesday afternoon.
"How can I help you?" I ask politely after announcing the company name.
"Good afternoon. Do you have Vegemite?" In German, and of course straight to the point.
"Unfortunately we are completely out of stock of Vegemite at the moment, but we are expecting - "
"When will you get more Vegemite?"
Well, if you'd let me finish the first time... I take a deep breath. He's obviously one of those customers. "We're expecting a delivery by the end of the week."
"Do you have Marmite?"
I couldn't believe he asked. Such a poor substitute, but if you're not Australian, you usually don't notice the subtle difference in flavour. Short answer is "Yes, at the moment we have three jars of Marmite in stock."
"Is that all?"
Sorry, I forgot to mention the two thousand jars we've got in reserve in a warehouse in downtown Hamburg... okay, a little heavy on the sarcasm. "Yes, that's all we have for the moment. How many would you like?"
"I am the catering director of a cruise ship currently docked in Hamburg, and I need thirty-six jars of Vegemite."
"Well, we don't have any in stock at the moment, but I'm sure if you would like to give me a contact phone number, I can call the owner of the store and we could arrange a special order for you."
"We sail out on Friday. Can they be delivered by Thursday night?"
Ok, one second. First - I don't know where to start. Thirty-six jars of Vegemite? Even your average Coles Supermarket in Australia would rarely have that much stock on hand at any one time. But a small import business in Hamburg, catering predominantly for the niche expat market? No way, Jose. And all of this by Friday? Sorry, Thursday, ready for departure Friday morning? You've got better chances of a free return ticket on the next shuttle to the moon.
I am rather more careful with my words than that, and I inform Mr Caterer Extraordinaire that unfortunately that just isn't possible, as shipping from Australia alone can take up to ten weeks. He's rather displeased with this and wishes me a pleasant day. I hope he's not like that with all of his suppliers, for his company's sake.
Anzac Day 2008 - The Gallipoli Experience
Anzac Day - the 25th of April - is a national public holiday in Australia and New Zealand. The term itself, "Anzac", is practically sacred in Australia and New Zealand, and has even been copyrighted by the RSL to protect it from potential 'misuse' [website: Using Anzac] Most of you know why it is so significant. If not, have a look at the Australian War Memorial site. In a nutshell, Anzac Day commemorates the landings of the Anzac (Australian and New Zealand Army Corps) troops on the far north-west coast of Turkey at dawn on the 25th of April, 1915. It was a complete disaster, in terms of tactics, intelligence, and above all, loss of life on both sides. However, out of this unthinkably horrible battlefield, the national character of all three countries was born.
Since 2000, my Anzac tradition is to sleep at my grandparents like I used to when I was a kid. My grandfather and I get up at 4am on the 25th to get the bus from the local RSL to the Shrine of Remembrance in Melbourne with tens of thousands of others for the Dawn Service. I’m not sure when I first considered making the trip to Turkey. Maybe it was at the first Dawn Service I went to… maybe years before that. Either way, I’d been researching the logistics of this for quite a few years, and without a doubt, the easiest way to do it was to join a tour group. So I did.
I’m definitely someone accustomed to doing their travel homework, and in this case, I hit gold. The wonder that is Google brought me to the website of Istanbul travel agency True Blue Tours - without a doubt the best travel agency I’ve ever dealt with. I could not fault them. Yes, they are that good. Yilmaz, the owner/manager, will quite literally do almost anything for his clients. And so I found myself abandoning school for two days, claiming an Australian national cultural pilgrimage, and set off for Istanbul, the only city in the world to span two continents, possibly the city with the greatest number of official names over the years, and even a song to commemorate this feat. Almost as soon as I arrived in Istanbul, I fell in love with it. Before I’d even got to the centre of the city, Istanbul had well and truly got under my skin. I think it might have been a combination of the warm weather, the sunshine and the magnificent harbour, reminiscent of St Kilda Esplanade, that entranced me. Then again, I think the immortal words of Darryl Kerrigan capture it much more succinctly: “It’s just the vibe”.
The 4-day round trip from Istanbul started on the Wednesday night with a Turkish cultural evening - a belly dancer reminiscent of Amy Winehouse and a very entertaining singer, whose linguistic skills spanned not only Turkish and English, but also German, Hindi, Mandarin and French. His repertoire included musical masterpieces and cultural cornerstones from all nationalities present - a Chinese ballad, a groovy Bollywood number, a Latvian folk song, and “Muss I Denn” for the Germans. He unfortunately overlooked the Kiwis, and instead chose to include them in a Turkish-accented rendition of “Waltzing Matilda”.
The following morning was a bright and early 6am start for the five-hour drive down to the Gallipoli peninsula. About three hours into the drive, we began to realise with every passing truck stop just how many Australian and Kiwi expats had chosen 2008 to make the pilgrimage. The number of giant white luxury coaches in each and every carpark continued to grow (I stopped counting at twenty - at one truck stop!). For many reasons, we were indeed fortunate that our tour company had chosen a 30-seater minibus with all the luxuries of a coach, in addition to being painted a spectacular shade of bronze. Not only did this make our group a lot easier to keep together, and to get to know a lot more people on the tour in the few days we had together, but it also made it a lot easier to both park the bus and find it in the fleet of over 400 (!!!) total coaches.
Eceabat, the major town on the peninsula, appeared to have been transformed into Manly/Torquay for the weekend. The streets were filled with Australians and Kiwis, wearing Socceroos, All-Blacks and various AFL jerseys (Essendon and Collingwood were the frontrunners), Havaiana thongs/flip flops, Billabong boardies, Oakleys on their heads and all manner of commemorative Gallipoli landing t-shirts. First up was an essential Turkish lunch - a real Turkish döner (similar to a Greek souvlaki). Since Berlin apparently has the largest Turkish population of any city outside Turkey, döner is the unofficial dish of Berlin, and goes down a treat at around 3-4am. There are some great döner places in Berlin, but nothing compares to the real thing. I also caved to the local entrepreneurs and bought myself a souvenir t-shirt, and managed to get my first practice at haggling - got the guy down from 20YTL to 15YTL (1YTL (lira) = approx AUD$1.10). Felt very proud.
We left Eceabat behind and began our tour of the battlefields. First stop was the Dardanelles coast, followed by Lone Pine, the site of a major battle between the Australian and the Turkish armies in August of 1915. At times, the front lines were within metres of each other, forcing the soldiers to abandon their rifles and bayonets, and instead use rocks, knives, and their bare hands. For more information, have a look at the AWM website. This is now the location of the major Australian memorial on the peninsula. The entire site is no larger than your average suburban footy ground. At one end is a low wall covered in the names of the fallen; behind this is an immense granite monument, and in front of it is another low wall with the inscription “Their name liveth for evermore”. We had about twenty minutes here, and I walked around the monument first, then wandered between the rows and rows of gravestones. All had names, birthdates, and dates of death, but for some, those were the only pieces of information known. Many had also been inscribed with an epitaph; some reflected those waiting at home for the dead, some were biblical verses, others poignantly simple: “He laid down his life for his friends”, “Could I just clasp your hand one more time to say well done”, “Until we meet again”, “Peace perfect peace”. I could have spent hours there, but unfortunately more and more people were streaming in as tour groups arrived from Istanbul, and we still had a lot of ground to cover before heading over to Anzac Cove.
Next stop was Chunuk Bair, the New Zealand official commemorative site. As with Lone Pine for Australians, Chunuk Bair was the site of a major battle, this time between New Zealand and Turkish forces. The entrance is a wide open hilltop with a spectacular view up the coast towards Suvla Bay, and there are five massive concrete blocks mounted here in a circle, each with quotes from Mustafa Kemal Ataturk or similar; all in Turkish, but nevertheless spectacular. The focal part of the site is a small commemorative area, again with spectacular views of the coast, and between the two areas there is a maze of old trenches. Chunuk Bair, while spectacular, and the New Zealand equivalent of Lone Pine, wasn’t as moving for me as Lone Pine, or indeed Anzac Cove. While both of the others have areas of marked graves, Chunuk Bair seemed more to me like a construction site, and unfortunately we didn’t have the time here to walk around and explore more.
From there, we moved on to a site which most of the big tour groups simply skip over; the Turkish 57th Infantry Regiment Memorial. It’s right on the tour route, very close to The Nek, Lone Pine and Chunuk Bair, but as an Anzac group, we were without a doubt in the minority. The atmosphere here is similar yet also different; where the other monuments are rectangles of white granite, the red-tinged Turkish memorial has a distinctly oriental design, and while crosses and the occasional star of David mark the graves of fallen Anzacs, here each headstone is engraved with a star and crescent moon, and all point south-southeast towards Mekkah, with inscriptions in both Turkish and Arabic script. While this was a significant enough change, it wasn’t until we were leaving that I noticed something that gave me a very personal connection with this place. A group of about twenty school-age children were gathered in front of a wall of remembrance engraved with hundreds of Turkish names, while two adults attempted to wrangle them for a group photo. It was then that I noticed that not only were they all similarly dressed, but that they were also wearing blue neck scarves very similar to the ones we had worn as Guides and Scouts in Australia. They were a Turkish Scout group, visiting a war memorial for the fallen soldiers of their country, just as I had done many times with school and Guide groups in Australia, and it suddenly hit home that although this site was considered almost sacred for the descendants of the Anzacs who had lost their lives here, it is just as significant for the Turkish people for exactly the same reason. As I wrote in an email to the travel agent who organised the tour, I could relate to those kids; suddenly it didn't matter which uniform the soldiers had worn, which flag they saluted or if their home was thousands of kilometres away on the other side of the world, or a small village in a nearby valley. None of them should have died there.
We left the Turkish memorial and slowly made our way back toward Anzac Cove, where we would spend the night. The entire area was declared an alcohol-free zone in 2003, although I cannot imagine how the organisers ever saw fit to allow drinking at the site. Approaching the main entrance, we noticed two long queues for security, and so joined on the end, and waited. Then my phone rings. Some back story required here - check one of the previous entries. Anyway, security was tight, involving rigorous body and luggage searches, then we finally made it inside. Seeing the area itself for the first time I have to admit, I was surprised by the small size. I had expected an area the size of a city block, although I think, in my imagination, having heard stories about this battle for as long as I can remember, I had built it up in my mind to be an expansive area to fit the immense significance of the battle which took place here. In reality though, the area is probably the size of two football fields - a similar size to Lone Pine.
It was only 4pm and already the grassed area was almost completely full, and the empty seats in the grandstands were rapidly disappearing. We managed to find a group of seats together and settled in for the night. The light was slowly fading, and considering we’d be in the grandstands all night, I left the group to explore the area for myself about an hour before sunset. I wandered back up the entrance road towards Ari Burnu, a small point marking the south end of Northern Beach, and made my way down onto the beach. On the way down, I saw a large granite block, again with Mustafa Kemal Ataturk's famous quote on it. I love the sentiment behind it.
There were a few others weaving between the graves, pausing here and there for a moment, and after reading some of the inscriptions myself, I moved further down onto the beach itself and settled on the rocky beach to watch the sunset. Although I grew up in suburban Melbourne, a lot of my childhood was spent at the beach or on the water, and just sitting on the shore at Ari Burnu, away from the crowded chaos of Northern Beach, watching the waves gently wash over the pebbles, I finally had a chance to reflect on why I was actually there and the significance of the place. One song kept running through my head - And The Band Played Waltzing Matilda, by Eric Bogle. I'd taught some of my year 11s in Berlin about the history of Anzac through this song, and I love it. Watching the waves on the shore, the line "And their blood stained the sand and the water" had newfound meaning. It was this beach that he was talking about. The clear blue water gently ebbing and flowing, and the yellow grainy sand mixed with grey pebbles that I was so calmly relaxing on had once been stained scarlet with the blood of my ancestors. Truly food for thought.
I stayed there for a good hour, and only long after the sun had set over the Aegean and the stars had begun tracing their path towards the west, I gradually made my way back to the rest of the True Blue Tours gang. And then began the long wait for dawn. I had read some previous extracts from online travel reviews about the Anzac experience, and so knew it would be cold, but I had no idea it would be the kind of cold that froze you to the bone, so that no amount of moving could get you warm, that cups of piping hot Turkish tea straight out of the urn seemed merely lukewarm, and that your own shivering kept you awake, even at 5am after having been awake for almost 24 hours. Many people had brought sleeping bags, but unfortunately I neither had a one in Berlin, nor was inclined to buy one just for this trip. Even our tour organiser had expected a significantly less Antarctic overnight experience, having advised me against bringing a sleeping bag and assuring me that a warm jacket and a beanie would suffice. Unfortunately it did not. Sitting in my ski jacket with my jeans tucked into my socks and boots, two scarves tightly wrapped around my neck and a fleece blanket snugly around my legs to keep the wind blowing through the back of the grandstand from turning my lower legs into iceblocks, I began to appreciate the soldiers’ experiences of arriving at Gallipoli that morning in the boats, wearing not much more than a military uniform, and certainly not having the luxury of high tech fleece or good old hot tea to ward off the hypothermia.
To be fair, the organisers made a fair attempt to distract us from the cold; they had set up massive screens around the area and throughout the night showed personal documentaries relating to both Anzac and Turkish soldiers, which included extracts from diaries and letters home, and interviews with Gallipoli historians from both Australia and New Zealand, as well as intermittent performances of music from that era by the Australian and NZ military band.
Then finally around 5am, there began to be movement at the station. Well, at the podium anyway. I have to admit, although the service itself was the main reason for making the trip to Turkey in the first place, by this stage I was so overtired that I had discovered I have the skill of being able to nap standing up. I literally could not keep my eyes open any longer, and during some of the readings at least, I know I drifted off for a few minutes here and there. I was however awake long enough to see a truly magnanimous gesture from the Turkish military. Behind the stage, the flags of all three nations were fluttering gently in the early morning breeze - the Australian and New Zealand flags both at half-mast in accordance with military tradition. However within the first few minutes, a senior Turkish military officer directed one of his subordinates to lower the Turkish flag to match the Australian and New Zealand. Turkish military tradition differs slightly from Australian in that the flag is either fully raised or fully lowered, and breaking tradition to acknowledge the customs of the military forces of two then-enemy countries may have been a small gesture, but its significance was not lost on the crowd.
The service itself was similar to the Melbourne service, and all of the elements that I love about the service at home were there. I’m not sure what I would choose as my favourite part though. I think just hearing all of the readings and hymns that I’m so used to hearing in Melbourne actually read and sung at Gallipoli, at Northern Beach, was the best part: Abide With Me, which always reminds me of my grandpa - I don’t know the words, but he does, and when they play it in Melbourne, I love to listen to him sing along with the other veterans. One thing that I don't recall hearing in Melbourne is Ataturk's speech - the one I mentioned before. Here, it had special significance. The original Mehmets and Johnnies may have long since passed away, but their descendents continue to remember their sacrifices, and have an incredible amount of mutual respect. And his words still hold true.
The Ode of Remembrance had particular importance - after all, the 17,000-strong crowd gathered on the shore was all the evidence anyone would need that to clearly demonstrate that “We will remember them.” The Last Post echoed around the hills and valleys and reflected off the cliffs behind us, then Advance Australia Fair was played. At the time, I was extremely moved by this, but that was before Lone Pine.
And suddenly it was all over. Almost without anyone realising, the sun had risen and was starting to bring some warmth to the chilly morning air, and gradually the huge crowd dispersed for the separate services. Again, full credit to our travel agent - Yilmaz and our driver had managed to demonstrate strategic genius in finding a space for our bus, and after a quick breakfast, we got back onto the bus and headed up to Lone Pine [photo].
This was the other service I’d been looking forward to; a service with just Australians, in a place that has a significance for our country and our history like no other place on Earth. Where yesterday the site had been relatively calm and spacious, the grandstands along both sides of the memorial and all of the grassed area between the graves and around the Lone Pine were now filled with people, still obviously very close to being either frostbitten or asleep - in many cases, both - from the Dawn Service. The service here was different to Anzac Cove - for me, it was much more personal. By this stage, I’d been away from Australia for nine months, and aside from my mum’s visit and a few random eavesdropping opportunities in the trains in Berlin, I’d had very little contact with Aussies here. And now, to be surrounded by Australians, and to stand at a place like Lone Pine, seeing the Australian flag at half mast and hearing Advance Australia Fair - that was something that I will never forget as long as I live. I’m not a huge fan of the anthem - Adam Hills most definitely had a point when he said that it’s not the most inspiring anthem in the world. The tune shares a greater resemblance with a funeral dirge than an inspiring ballad, and some of the words are linguistically obsolete - exhibit A: girt. However, it is still our national anthem, and standing in the grandstand, my flag wrapped around my shoulders just like hundreds of other people, hearing those first few notes, seeing everyone get to their feet, and then listening to the 10,000 strong crowd sing along (of course, majority for the first verse only - then there was a great flurry of activity as people dove for their Order Of Service booklets for the words to the second verse); that is a moment that will stay with me forever. In the middle of Turkey, I felt like I was at home.
The rest of the day is something of a blur. Following the Lone Pine service was the Chunuk Bair service for the New Zealanders. By this stage, I was getting to the point of saturation with military services and official commemorative memorials, and like many of the others in the group, I chose the warmth and wind-free shelter of the bus. By that afternoon, we were on the highway back up to Istanbul, and that night in the hotel, I think I probably got one of the best nights sleep ever.
And with that, I’m going to bring this entry to a somewhat premature close. I think I managed to fit two completely different trips into the space of a weekend - the craziness of Istanbul, and the monumental historical and cultural significance of the Anzac Day Dawn Service on the Gallipoli Peninsula, and hence I’ve chosen to separate the two in my blog. Ok, you’ve got me: I’ve only managed to finish the first part. Yes, I admit - I take my time with blogs. Either way, the Anzac part is done, so enjoy that, and I hope to not keep you all waiting too long with the Istanbul experience. Ciao -A
Since 2000, my Anzac tradition is to sleep at my grandparents like I used to when I was a kid. My grandfather and I get up at 4am on the 25th to get the bus from the local RSL to the Shrine of Remembrance in Melbourne with tens of thousands of others for the Dawn Service. I’m not sure when I first considered making the trip to Turkey. Maybe it was at the first Dawn Service I went to… maybe years before that. Either way, I’d been researching the logistics of this for quite a few years, and without a doubt, the easiest way to do it was to join a tour group. So I did.
I’m definitely someone accustomed to doing their travel homework, and in this case, I hit gold. The wonder that is Google brought me to the website of Istanbul travel agency True Blue Tours - without a doubt the best travel agency I’ve ever dealt with. I could not fault them. Yes, they are that good. Yilmaz, the owner/manager, will quite literally do almost anything for his clients. And so I found myself abandoning school for two days, claiming an Australian national cultural pilgrimage, and set off for Istanbul, the only city in the world to span two continents, possibly the city with the greatest number of official names over the years, and even a song to commemorate this feat. Almost as soon as I arrived in Istanbul, I fell in love with it. Before I’d even got to the centre of the city, Istanbul had well and truly got under my skin. I think it might have been a combination of the warm weather, the sunshine and the magnificent harbour, reminiscent of St Kilda Esplanade, that entranced me. Then again, I think the immortal words of Darryl Kerrigan capture it much more succinctly: “It’s just the vibe”.
The 4-day round trip from Istanbul started on the Wednesday night with a Turkish cultural evening - a belly dancer reminiscent of Amy Winehouse and a very entertaining singer, whose linguistic skills spanned not only Turkish and English, but also German, Hindi, Mandarin and French. His repertoire included musical masterpieces and cultural cornerstones from all nationalities present - a Chinese ballad, a groovy Bollywood number, a Latvian folk song, and “Muss I Denn” for the Germans. He unfortunately overlooked the Kiwis, and instead chose to include them in a Turkish-accented rendition of “Waltzing Matilda”.
The following morning was a bright and early 6am start for the five-hour drive down to the Gallipoli peninsula. About three hours into the drive, we began to realise with every passing truck stop just how many Australian and Kiwi expats had chosen 2008 to make the pilgrimage. The number of giant white luxury coaches in each and every carpark continued to grow (I stopped counting at twenty - at one truck stop!). For many reasons, we were indeed fortunate that our tour company had chosen a 30-seater minibus with all the luxuries of a coach, in addition to being painted a spectacular shade of bronze. Not only did this make our group a lot easier to keep together, and to get to know a lot more people on the tour in the few days we had together, but it also made it a lot easier to both park the bus and find it in the fleet of over 400 (!!!) total coaches.
Eceabat, the major town on the peninsula, appeared to have been transformed into Manly/Torquay for the weekend. The streets were filled with Australians and Kiwis, wearing Socceroos, All-Blacks and various AFL jerseys (Essendon and Collingwood were the frontrunners), Havaiana thongs/flip flops, Billabong boardies, Oakleys on their heads and all manner of commemorative Gallipoli landing t-shirts. First up was an essential Turkish lunch - a real Turkish döner (similar to a Greek souvlaki). Since Berlin apparently has the largest Turkish population of any city outside Turkey, döner is the unofficial dish of Berlin, and goes down a treat at around 3-4am. There are some great döner places in Berlin, but nothing compares to the real thing. I also caved to the local entrepreneurs and bought myself a souvenir t-shirt, and managed to get my first practice at haggling - got the guy down from 20YTL to 15YTL (1YTL (lira) = approx AUD$1.10). Felt very proud.
We left Eceabat behind and began our tour of the battlefields. First stop was the Dardanelles coast, followed by Lone Pine, the site of a major battle between the Australian and the Turkish armies in August of 1915. At times, the front lines were within metres of each other, forcing the soldiers to abandon their rifles and bayonets, and instead use rocks, knives, and their bare hands. For more information, have a look at the AWM website. This is now the location of the major Australian memorial on the peninsula. The entire site is no larger than your average suburban footy ground. At one end is a low wall covered in the names of the fallen; behind this is an immense granite monument, and in front of it is another low wall with the inscription “Their name liveth for evermore”. We had about twenty minutes here, and I walked around the monument first, then wandered between the rows and rows of gravestones. All had names, birthdates, and dates of death, but for some, those were the only pieces of information known. Many had also been inscribed with an epitaph; some reflected those waiting at home for the dead, some were biblical verses, others poignantly simple: “He laid down his life for his friends”, “Could I just clasp your hand one more time to say well done”, “Until we meet again”, “Peace perfect peace”. I could have spent hours there, but unfortunately more and more people were streaming in as tour groups arrived from Istanbul, and we still had a lot of ground to cover before heading over to Anzac Cove.
Next stop was Chunuk Bair, the New Zealand official commemorative site. As with Lone Pine for Australians, Chunuk Bair was the site of a major battle, this time between New Zealand and Turkish forces. The entrance is a wide open hilltop with a spectacular view up the coast towards Suvla Bay, and there are five massive concrete blocks mounted here in a circle, each with quotes from Mustafa Kemal Ataturk or similar; all in Turkish, but nevertheless spectacular. The focal part of the site is a small commemorative area, again with spectacular views of the coast, and between the two areas there is a maze of old trenches. Chunuk Bair, while spectacular, and the New Zealand equivalent of Lone Pine, wasn’t as moving for me as Lone Pine, or indeed Anzac Cove. While both of the others have areas of marked graves, Chunuk Bair seemed more to me like a construction site, and unfortunately we didn’t have the time here to walk around and explore more.
From there, we moved on to a site which most of the big tour groups simply skip over; the Turkish 57th Infantry Regiment Memorial. It’s right on the tour route, very close to The Nek, Lone Pine and Chunuk Bair, but as an Anzac group, we were without a doubt in the minority. The atmosphere here is similar yet also different; where the other monuments are rectangles of white granite, the red-tinged Turkish memorial has a distinctly oriental design, and while crosses and the occasional star of David mark the graves of fallen Anzacs, here each headstone is engraved with a star and crescent moon, and all point south-southeast towards Mekkah, with inscriptions in both Turkish and Arabic script. While this was a significant enough change, it wasn’t until we were leaving that I noticed something that gave me a very personal connection with this place. A group of about twenty school-age children were gathered in front of a wall of remembrance engraved with hundreds of Turkish names, while two adults attempted to wrangle them for a group photo. It was then that I noticed that not only were they all similarly dressed, but that they were also wearing blue neck scarves very similar to the ones we had worn as Guides and Scouts in Australia. They were a Turkish Scout group, visiting a war memorial for the fallen soldiers of their country, just as I had done many times with school and Guide groups in Australia, and it suddenly hit home that although this site was considered almost sacred for the descendants of the Anzacs who had lost their lives here, it is just as significant for the Turkish people for exactly the same reason. As I wrote in an email to the travel agent who organised the tour, I could relate to those kids; suddenly it didn't matter which uniform the soldiers had worn, which flag they saluted or if their home was thousands of kilometres away on the other side of the world, or a small village in a nearby valley. None of them should have died there.
We left the Turkish memorial and slowly made our way back toward Anzac Cove, where we would spend the night. The entire area was declared an alcohol-free zone in 2003, although I cannot imagine how the organisers ever saw fit to allow drinking at the site. Approaching the main entrance, we noticed two long queues for security, and so joined on the end, and waited. Then my phone rings. Some back story required here - check one of the previous entries. Anyway, security was tight, involving rigorous body and luggage searches, then we finally made it inside. Seeing the area itself for the first time I have to admit, I was surprised by the small size. I had expected an area the size of a city block, although I think, in my imagination, having heard stories about this battle for as long as I can remember, I had built it up in my mind to be an expansive area to fit the immense significance of the battle which took place here. In reality though, the area is probably the size of two football fields - a similar size to Lone Pine.
It was only 4pm and already the grassed area was almost completely full, and the empty seats in the grandstands were rapidly disappearing. We managed to find a group of seats together and settled in for the night. The light was slowly fading, and considering we’d be in the grandstands all night, I left the group to explore the area for myself about an hour before sunset. I wandered back up the entrance road towards Ari Burnu, a small point marking the south end of Northern Beach, and made my way down onto the beach. On the way down, I saw a large granite block, again with Mustafa Kemal Ataturk's famous quote on it. I love the sentiment behind it.
There were a few others weaving between the graves, pausing here and there for a moment, and after reading some of the inscriptions myself, I moved further down onto the beach itself and settled on the rocky beach to watch the sunset. Although I grew up in suburban Melbourne, a lot of my childhood was spent at the beach or on the water, and just sitting on the shore at Ari Burnu, away from the crowded chaos of Northern Beach, watching the waves gently wash over the pebbles, I finally had a chance to reflect on why I was actually there and the significance of the place. One song kept running through my head - And The Band Played Waltzing Matilda, by Eric Bogle. I'd taught some of my year 11s in Berlin about the history of Anzac through this song, and I love it. Watching the waves on the shore, the line "And their blood stained the sand and the water" had newfound meaning. It was this beach that he was talking about. The clear blue water gently ebbing and flowing, and the yellow grainy sand mixed with grey pebbles that I was so calmly relaxing on had once been stained scarlet with the blood of my ancestors. Truly food for thought.
I stayed there for a good hour, and only long after the sun had set over the Aegean and the stars had begun tracing their path towards the west, I gradually made my way back to the rest of the True Blue Tours gang. And then began the long wait for dawn. I had read some previous extracts from online travel reviews about the Anzac experience, and so knew it would be cold, but I had no idea it would be the kind of cold that froze you to the bone, so that no amount of moving could get you warm, that cups of piping hot Turkish tea straight out of the urn seemed merely lukewarm, and that your own shivering kept you awake, even at 5am after having been awake for almost 24 hours. Many people had brought sleeping bags, but unfortunately I neither had a one in Berlin, nor was inclined to buy one just for this trip. Even our tour organiser had expected a significantly less Antarctic overnight experience, having advised me against bringing a sleeping bag and assuring me that a warm jacket and a beanie would suffice. Unfortunately it did not. Sitting in my ski jacket with my jeans tucked into my socks and boots, two scarves tightly wrapped around my neck and a fleece blanket snugly around my legs to keep the wind blowing through the back of the grandstand from turning my lower legs into iceblocks, I began to appreciate the soldiers’ experiences of arriving at Gallipoli that morning in the boats, wearing not much more than a military uniform, and certainly not having the luxury of high tech fleece or good old hot tea to ward off the hypothermia.
To be fair, the organisers made a fair attempt to distract us from the cold; they had set up massive screens around the area and throughout the night showed personal documentaries relating to both Anzac and Turkish soldiers, which included extracts from diaries and letters home, and interviews with Gallipoli historians from both Australia and New Zealand, as well as intermittent performances of music from that era by the Australian and NZ military band.
Then finally around 5am, there began to be movement at the station. Well, at the podium anyway. I have to admit, although the service itself was the main reason for making the trip to Turkey in the first place, by this stage I was so overtired that I had discovered I have the skill of being able to nap standing up. I literally could not keep my eyes open any longer, and during some of the readings at least, I know I drifted off for a few minutes here and there. I was however awake long enough to see a truly magnanimous gesture from the Turkish military. Behind the stage, the flags of all three nations were fluttering gently in the early morning breeze - the Australian and New Zealand flags both at half-mast in accordance with military tradition. However within the first few minutes, a senior Turkish military officer directed one of his subordinates to lower the Turkish flag to match the Australian and New Zealand. Turkish military tradition differs slightly from Australian in that the flag is either fully raised or fully lowered, and breaking tradition to acknowledge the customs of the military forces of two then-enemy countries may have been a small gesture, but its significance was not lost on the crowd.
The service itself was similar to the Melbourne service, and all of the elements that I love about the service at home were there. I’m not sure what I would choose as my favourite part though. I think just hearing all of the readings and hymns that I’m so used to hearing in Melbourne actually read and sung at Gallipoli, at Northern Beach, was the best part: Abide With Me, which always reminds me of my grandpa - I don’t know the words, but he does, and when they play it in Melbourne, I love to listen to him sing along with the other veterans. One thing that I don't recall hearing in Melbourne is Ataturk's speech - the one I mentioned before. Here, it had special significance. The original Mehmets and Johnnies may have long since passed away, but their descendents continue to remember their sacrifices, and have an incredible amount of mutual respect. And his words still hold true.
The Ode of Remembrance had particular importance - after all, the 17,000-strong crowd gathered on the shore was all the evidence anyone would need that to clearly demonstrate that “We will remember them.” The Last Post echoed around the hills and valleys and reflected off the cliffs behind us, then Advance Australia Fair was played. At the time, I was extremely moved by this, but that was before Lone Pine.
And suddenly it was all over. Almost without anyone realising, the sun had risen and was starting to bring some warmth to the chilly morning air, and gradually the huge crowd dispersed for the separate services. Again, full credit to our travel agent - Yilmaz and our driver had managed to demonstrate strategic genius in finding a space for our bus, and after a quick breakfast, we got back onto the bus and headed up to Lone Pine [photo].
This was the other service I’d been looking forward to; a service with just Australians, in a place that has a significance for our country and our history like no other place on Earth. Where yesterday the site had been relatively calm and spacious, the grandstands along both sides of the memorial and all of the grassed area between the graves and around the Lone Pine were now filled with people, still obviously very close to being either frostbitten or asleep - in many cases, both - from the Dawn Service. The service here was different to Anzac Cove - for me, it was much more personal. By this stage, I’d been away from Australia for nine months, and aside from my mum’s visit and a few random eavesdropping opportunities in the trains in Berlin, I’d had very little contact with Aussies here. And now, to be surrounded by Australians, and to stand at a place like Lone Pine, seeing the Australian flag at half mast and hearing Advance Australia Fair - that was something that I will never forget as long as I live. I’m not a huge fan of the anthem - Adam Hills most definitely had a point when he said that it’s not the most inspiring anthem in the world. The tune shares a greater resemblance with a funeral dirge than an inspiring ballad, and some of the words are linguistically obsolete - exhibit A: girt. However, it is still our national anthem, and standing in the grandstand, my flag wrapped around my shoulders just like hundreds of other people, hearing those first few notes, seeing everyone get to their feet, and then listening to the 10,000 strong crowd sing along (of course, majority for the first verse only - then there was a great flurry of activity as people dove for their Order Of Service booklets for the words to the second verse); that is a moment that will stay with me forever. In the middle of Turkey, I felt like I was at home.
The rest of the day is something of a blur. Following the Lone Pine service was the Chunuk Bair service for the New Zealanders. By this stage, I was getting to the point of saturation with military services and official commemorative memorials, and like many of the others in the group, I chose the warmth and wind-free shelter of the bus. By that afternoon, we were on the highway back up to Istanbul, and that night in the hotel, I think I probably got one of the best nights sleep ever.
And with that, I’m going to bring this entry to a somewhat premature close. I think I managed to fit two completely different trips into the space of a weekend - the craziness of Istanbul, and the monumental historical and cultural significance of the Anzac Day Dawn Service on the Gallipoli Peninsula, and hence I’ve chosen to separate the two in my blog. Ok, you’ve got me: I’ve only managed to finish the first part. Yes, I admit - I take my time with blogs. Either way, the Anzac part is done, so enjoy that, and I hope to not keep you all waiting too long with the Istanbul experience. Ciao -A
Customers and their randomness...
The weird thing about working in a store in Germany... well, there are many weird things. The first - no, the main one - is the customers. Strange customers and their strange comments and opinions are without a doubt an international plague.
Example: a woman at the cafe I used to work at in Melbourne who would come in at least once a week, order herself a coffee and a muffin, sit at a table and proceed to have a lengthy and earnest yet almost silent argument with herself, at the end of which she would present a member of staff with a small gift, usually a perfume or hand cream sample from one of the major department stores in the centre, before leaving the store without a further word.
Here, the customers might not talk to themselves, but the way they talk to each other or even to me about Australia is sometimes astounding. The first afternoon I worked here, I noticed a rather scruffy looking old man standing outside reading one of our window signs, then shaking his head at it before pushing the door open. At first glance he looks rather average, however having lived in Germany for a while, I can spot the homeless a mile away - unidentifiable stains on his clothes, years of street grime staining the back of his hands and his fingernails, and a faint aroma of urine and stale beer following him like a cloud. He looks at one of the displays at the back of the store.
In German: "You sell meat?"
"Yes, we do. We sell kangaroo meat and also emu sausage." Both of which I find revolting, but that's just my opinion.
"Why do you kill animals so that you can continue your life?"
Oh, god. Here we go. Not just your average homeless looney tunes, but a vegan one hankering for an argument. And on top of that, it's in German. My Deutsch skills are good, but I don't have an answer for a question like that in any language that would satisfy him. He takes my "Tja" - the German equivalent of - "Well..." as an admission of moral corruption and an invitation to preach. For the next five minutes, he proceeds to bombard me with opinions and self-righteous statements concerning veganism and the Ten Commandments: as he very bluntly reminded me, "Thou shalt not kill" is one of them. Eventually he loses the will to argue with me - mostly because I refuse to argue with him - and leaves the store.
Two days later he's back. This time the boomerang is the bone of contention. He sees that we have two designs of boomerang, and knows from the previous encounter that I am Australian, and now flying solo in the store (1 day of training for a full time position was considered completely adequate - the fact that my trainer spent over 50% of the day on flirtcafe.de is totally irrelevant.). He goes in for the kill. "What's the story?" he asks me, pointing to the boomerang display. Note: in German, the word for 'story' is the same as the one for 'history'. I have no idea which one he means. I ask.
"You're Australian. This is an Australian store. Boomerangs are from Australia. You should be able to tell me the history of the boomerang."
You've got to be kidding me. Where do I start with the issues here? I don't. I tell him that there's two main styles of boomerang that we stock: the returning boomerang and the hunting boomerang.
"Wrong. There are three types."
And yet again, I get a lecture from Mr Wikipedia himself, this time on the topic of the history of the boomerang.
Then there's the inspiration for this blog: the woman who just left the store. She and a friend came in and had a bit of a look around. I quickly realised that she would be one of those who would find everything in the store too expensive, and would clearly target me, the salesperson, as the reason for this daylight robbery. I agree, our stock is expensive, but with good reason: it's known as freight, and considering Australia is on the other side of the world, the extra charge for us to bring Australia, or pieces thereof, to Germany and alleviate the need for our customers to either go there themselves to buy things or to order things online and pay postage from Australia independently is a small price to pay. Most people understand that.
This woman didn't. First stop: Blundstones. Yes, they're expensive.
"Do you have kids sizes?"
"Yes, we do, but unfortunately we have limited stock at the moment."
"I wouldn't buy them anyway. They're too expensive and they're not worth it for kids - they grow too fast."
I can see in her eyes that there's no possiblity for a rational discussion here.
Five minutes later at the register, as they're paying (incidentally, the woman bought one of those tourist-targeting green and gold slouch hats with the corks on the brim), her friend blurts out "Someone died in Australia recently."
Well, yes, I'm sure someone has died in Australia at some stage. I bite my tongue however and suggest the name Steve Irwin, since that's one of the few Aussies people know over here.
"Yeah, the crazy guy who had it coming."
This got my back up. For two reasons. First, it's extremely bad taste. Even if it were toned down, only Australians can say something like that, and even then, only in a group of Australians, because we understand the black humour. Second, from other nationalities, I would be prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt when it comes to sense of humour - maybe I just don't get theirs. And in Germany, that's been proven before. It took months for Simon and I to figure out each other's sense of humour. But this woman had such an insulting and negative tone in her voice that it was all I could do to ignore the comment and politely ask for the 7.99 for the stuffed koala she'd selected.
"And the kid's continuing - she's just like her father. Disgraceful mother encouraging it. I suppose she's rich though. Dead husband, but still rich," she said with a glare as she waddled out of the store.
I was speechless.
Example: a woman at the cafe I used to work at in Melbourne who would come in at least once a week, order herself a coffee and a muffin, sit at a table and proceed to have a lengthy and earnest yet almost silent argument with herself, at the end of which she would present a member of staff with a small gift, usually a perfume or hand cream sample from one of the major department stores in the centre, before leaving the store without a further word.
Here, the customers might not talk to themselves, but the way they talk to each other or even to me about Australia is sometimes astounding. The first afternoon I worked here, I noticed a rather scruffy looking old man standing outside reading one of our window signs, then shaking his head at it before pushing the door open. At first glance he looks rather average, however having lived in Germany for a while, I can spot the homeless a mile away - unidentifiable stains on his clothes, years of street grime staining the back of his hands and his fingernails, and a faint aroma of urine and stale beer following him like a cloud. He looks at one of the displays at the back of the store.
In German: "You sell meat?"
"Yes, we do. We sell kangaroo meat and also emu sausage." Both of which I find revolting, but that's just my opinion.
"Why do you kill animals so that you can continue your life?"
Oh, god. Here we go. Not just your average homeless looney tunes, but a vegan one hankering for an argument. And on top of that, it's in German. My Deutsch skills are good, but I don't have an answer for a question like that in any language that would satisfy him. He takes my "Tja" - the German equivalent of - "Well..." as an admission of moral corruption and an invitation to preach. For the next five minutes, he proceeds to bombard me with opinions and self-righteous statements concerning veganism and the Ten Commandments: as he very bluntly reminded me, "Thou shalt not kill" is one of them. Eventually he loses the will to argue with me - mostly because I refuse to argue with him - and leaves the store.
Two days later he's back. This time the boomerang is the bone of contention. He sees that we have two designs of boomerang, and knows from the previous encounter that I am Australian, and now flying solo in the store (1 day of training for a full time position was considered completely adequate - the fact that my trainer spent over 50% of the day on flirtcafe.de is totally irrelevant.). He goes in for the kill. "What's the story?" he asks me, pointing to the boomerang display. Note: in German, the word for 'story' is the same as the one for 'history'. I have no idea which one he means. I ask.
"You're Australian. This is an Australian store. Boomerangs are from Australia. You should be able to tell me the history of the boomerang."
You've got to be kidding me. Where do I start with the issues here? I don't. I tell him that there's two main styles of boomerang that we stock: the returning boomerang and the hunting boomerang.
"Wrong. There are three types."
And yet again, I get a lecture from Mr Wikipedia himself, this time on the topic of the history of the boomerang.
Then there's the inspiration for this blog: the woman who just left the store. She and a friend came in and had a bit of a look around. I quickly realised that she would be one of those who would find everything in the store too expensive, and would clearly target me, the salesperson, as the reason for this daylight robbery. I agree, our stock is expensive, but with good reason: it's known as freight, and considering Australia is on the other side of the world, the extra charge for us to bring Australia, or pieces thereof, to Germany and alleviate the need for our customers to either go there themselves to buy things or to order things online and pay postage from Australia independently is a small price to pay. Most people understand that.
This woman didn't. First stop: Blundstones. Yes, they're expensive.
"Do you have kids sizes?"
"Yes, we do, but unfortunately we have limited stock at the moment."
"I wouldn't buy them anyway. They're too expensive and they're not worth it for kids - they grow too fast."
I can see in her eyes that there's no possiblity for a rational discussion here.
Five minutes later at the register, as they're paying (incidentally, the woman bought one of those tourist-targeting green and gold slouch hats with the corks on the brim), her friend blurts out "Someone died in Australia recently."
Well, yes, I'm sure someone has died in Australia at some stage. I bite my tongue however and suggest the name Steve Irwin, since that's one of the few Aussies people know over here.
"Yeah, the crazy guy who had it coming."
This got my back up. For two reasons. First, it's extremely bad taste. Even if it were toned down, only Australians can say something like that, and even then, only in a group of Australians, because we understand the black humour. Second, from other nationalities, I would be prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt when it comes to sense of humour - maybe I just don't get theirs. And in Germany, that's been proven before. It took months for Simon and I to figure out each other's sense of humour. But this woman had such an insulting and negative tone in her voice that it was all I could do to ignore the comment and politely ask for the 7.99 for the stuffed koala she'd selected.
"And the kid's continuing - she's just like her father. Disgraceful mother encouraging it. I suppose she's rich though. Dead husband, but still rich," she said with a glare as she waddled out of the store.
I was speechless.
FB isn't always evil.
I admit it. I sing the praises of Facebook. Sometimes. While I completely understand the reluctance of some to succumb, I have willingly joined the ranks, and in the process, have managed to both maintain and re-establish contact with people from my past who I otherwise probably would never have seen again.
Prime example of this: my best friend from early high school. I’ll take you back to 1993, the start of Year 6 for me. Rather than sticking out another year of my own personal hell at my local primary school, I bailed and traded it for my future high school, a small private girls’ school in the inner suburbs of
Anyway, unfortunately at the end of year 8, her family relocated back to
Then came FB. I noticed about four months ago that
Imagine my surprise when, while waiting in the security queue at Anzac Cove, my phone rings: the display reads
And seriously, it was as if no time had passed at all. I recognised her instantly, and after sticking with my group for a while to secure a place in the grandstand for the overnight ordeal, I found
Auf Wiedersehen Berlin.
Seriously, I have no idea where the last 10 months have gone. It seems like just yesterday I was still at work in stationery with Zoe. and the team, counting down the days until I escaped for Germany and a year in Berlin, and now it’s the end of May, and I’m packing up again, but this time to move within Germany. And on that topic, it is truly incredible how much junk you can accumulate in a year. The paper rubbish alone has filled four of the trusty green Coles shopping bags, and the other random rubbish – yes, it’s taken me about two weeks, off and on, to pack up my flat. Made all the more difficult by the magnificent weather outside in Berlin, the hundreds of “end-of-the-year-and-probably-the-last-time-we’ll-see-each-other” shindigs with the other assistants, and yes, travel too: well, wouldn’t you do the same thing if you had 10 days off in the middle of May, three eager travel buddies, a few hundred Euros saved, and return flights to Morocco were less than 200€ return? Yes, you know you would.
Anyway, it’s my last weekend in
I’ve got mixed feelings about the move to
But for now, it’s a new city, new job, new flat, new friends – it’ll be a challenge, and I know I’ll be busy for the first month – actually, for a lot longer than just the first month, but I can’t wait. I’m definitely ready for a change – school’s been pretty boring for the last few months, with over half of my lessons being cancelled for some reason or another, and I’m looking forward to leaving. I’ll miss my table buddies in the staff room – Simon, Christa and Conny, and some of the other staff, and definitely some of my classes, but I won’t be half sad to leave like I was in Kusel. I’m ready for some serious work – something I can get my teeth into, and from what I’ve seen of the Berlin branch of the company I'm joining, there’s definitely plenty for me to do. I can’t wait to get started; I’m also going to get an English conversation class running there, which should be good. We’ll see how it goes.
Welcome, allerseits!
Welcome to the grand premiere my very own blog. Regular requests from many of you and a significant amount of guilt have motivated me to follow the genius advice of a certain Blonde Canadian, who is neither blonde nor Canadian, and to set up a blog for myself.
So, here goes nothing. There’s a whole lot of stuff that most of you haven’t heard about, mostly because I’ve been flat out like the proverbial lizard for the last three months; travelling, occasionally teaching, travelling, sorting stuff out, and yes, some travelling. Those of you on Facebook would be the most up to date. I think the last time I sent out an email was in February, but don’t quote me on that. Yes, just checked, and that’s the latest. So, February, March,
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