I never thought I would say this, but the therapeutic effect of cleaning one's living space to within an inch of its life should never be underestimated.
The satisfaction of being able to completely control just one aspect of one's life when most of the others bear an amazing resemblance to a horrifically spectacular car crash is very comforting.
For your reference, here are the last ten days in the world of Australis in a nutshell (and yes, I have Austin Powers in my head at the moment):
- a Friday night house party which resulted in me being on the receiving end of a friend's decision to communicate his frustration in an alcohol-fuelled violent display at 5am (not the first time this has happened). Don't worry: I'm fine - no injuries here.
- farewelling a good friend who moved to Turkey for six months on Sunday.
- a phone call home in which I learned that one of my mum's colleagues - also a very good friend of hers - had lost her fight with bone and liver cancer, and that my grandfather had yet again been hospitalised (fourth time for 2009).
- an appointment at the German Immigration Department bright and way too early on Monday to apply for my visa, only to be told to fill out three more forms and bring them in on Thursday, with a copy of my university degrees, at least three references, biometric passport photos, and 10 other documents proving that I do indeed exist and that I am who I say I am. Gotta love the Germans and their bureaucracy. There is most definitely going to be a blog post on German red tape when I get my visa.
- an intense heart-to-heart on Monday evening with the aforementioned friend from the house party about the two violent episodes and where our friendship goes from here.
- a throat infection which resulted in me not being able to speak at all for four days and forcing me to communicate via hand gestures, facial expressions, Skype and a notebook.
- another appointment at the German Immigration Department on Thursday morning in which I handed over half the Amazon rainforest in the form of neatly-filled-out visa and work permit application forms and received the response "it may take up to two months to be processed". Brilliant. Just great.
- as if all that wasn't enough, a browse of the online news revealed that Australia was being ravaged by all manner of natural disasters. What is with that at the moment? Fires, floods, oil slicks, cyclones, earthquakes, landslides as a result of the earthquakes - all that's left is a volcanic eruption... wait, no, even that has also been taken care of! We're only missing the tidal wave for the whole set! Note: Mother Nature, this is not a challenge!!! :)
Given all this happened within the space of a week, on top of a friend visiting from out of town, I was indeed in a state which might best be described as "interesting" by evening of Sunday the 15th of March.
I have various possible plans of action for dealing with such a frazzled state of mind as this.
A good long walk - preferably in a park or along the beach - is usually the first step. Unfortunately it was raining, and I was loath to prolong my throat infection for any longer than absolutely necessary.
Ok, so I scroll down the list to number two. Ooh - one of my favourites! Rock music therapy: create a "Rock Out!" playlist on WinAmp, crank up the volume and sing along to my favourite artists - Jimmy Eat World, Green Day, AC/DC, The Offspring, The Living End and OkGo! among others... Slight problem - no voice. It would also be really inconsiderate of me concering my flatmates, one of whom was still recovering from a serious hangover from the previous night and the other of whom is currently working on a major assessment piece for his university film studies program.
So we come to number three on the list - a sure fire certainty as far as therapy goes. It also involves some serious effort, which ensures I get a decent night's sleep, and there are added benefits in the form of an impeccably clean living space!
#3 on my list of strategies for dealing with Australis in a state which might best be described as "interesting" = The Clean Up. Doesn't sound all that special to you?
Read on.
"The Clean Up" is not just putting stuff back where it belongs though. That I can do any old time. No, "The Clean Up" is the housekeeping equivalent of "The Full Monty".
And this is how it goes.
Step 1 - the basics. Putting stuff back where it belongs, sorting out the junk which had accumulated on my desk/on shelves in front of the stuff that actually belongs there/on my sofa/hanging from the handlebars of my bike/on the area around my loft bed, etc, over an unknown number of days (I'm not quite bad enough to have to add "weeks" to that), and most definitely putting on a load of washing. The small stuff. Lots of small stuff.
Second - the fun part. Here come the big guns. Step #2 = The Vacuum Cleaner.
I love vacuuming. I love the sound. I love the current of warm, clean air. I love doing some actual work to make my space clean and liveable again. I love the smell of a room which has just been vacuumed.
After all that has been achieved, we move on to the final phase.
Step #3 = The Post-Clean Chillax.
The entire effect of the clean living space is then completed by having a long hot shower, lighting a few candles and some Nag Champa incense, opening a window and curling up on the sofabed with a cuppa and a good book, and revelling in the cleanliness and the amazing effects, both internal and external, of Australis' patented "Clean Up", possibly the best ever plan of action for rescuing a weekend (or in my case, a ten-day period) which for all intents and purposes, was quite honestly $!#@.
Reason #8324 why I heart Berlin
Unlike my last blog entry, which was a work in progress for about a year, this one is about two hours from start to finish: experience, contemplation, commitment to a blog entry, formulation and publication.
I've been off work sick for the last few days - throat infection, so nothing drastic enough to keep me bed ridden: just bad enough that I was, for all intents and purposes, mute for the weekend. Brilliant. I was forced to communicate either via whispers (not great in a room full of people), a notebook (writing takes an amazing amount of time, and by the time I had written my witty comment down on my notebook and shown it around, the conversation had long since moved on. Grr.), or via Skype (very effective simply due to the speed of communication available, but slightly ridiculous when talking to a friend who is in reality sitting on the sofa on the other side of the room, only two metres away).
Anyway, today I was feeling much better - the drugs had been working, I had my voice back (partly), and on top of all that, I got a marvellous night's sleep and awoke to the first day of spring in Berlin, albeit halfway through March, but better late than never.
So after breakfast, I got my camera, mp3 player, sunglasses and hat, and lugged my new bike down all six flights of stairs (no lock-up facility in the basement, and also no lift in my building), and set off to discover undiscovered corners of Berlin.
Karl-Marx-Straße, the infamous Sonnenallee, Treptower Park, the Soviet Memorial, the Archenhold Sternwart (where a visitors' information board proudly announced that Albert Einstein had held his first lecture in Berlin on his newly discovered "Theory of Relativity" right here), then into Kreuzberg, one of the suburbs of inner Berlin which was split into two countries for 28 years by the Wall, and is now the thriving heart of Berlin's punk and alternative scene, in addition to being my favourite neighbourhood for drinks, shisha and general great nights out.
I began to make my way home - since it was St Pats day and all, I had various pubs to tour later in the day with my Irish flatmate and various other expats from the Emerald Isle, and had stuff to do before that. Coasting down an unassuming street, I noticed a metal display board at the side of the street, and slowed down to have a better look.
The site was the location of a tunnel built in 1962, through which 29 people escaped from East Berlin to West Berlin.
Bam. A subtle reminder (if I needed one) that Berlin has only been a reunified city for twenty years, and that East Germany and West Germany existed in my lifetime: these escapes were in the lifetimes of my parents, from a regime which was only brought down in 1989.
Love this city.
I've been off work sick for the last few days - throat infection, so nothing drastic enough to keep me bed ridden: just bad enough that I was, for all intents and purposes, mute for the weekend. Brilliant. I was forced to communicate either via whispers (not great in a room full of people), a notebook (writing takes an amazing amount of time, and by the time I had written my witty comment down on my notebook and shown it around, the conversation had long since moved on. Grr.), or via Skype (very effective simply due to the speed of communication available, but slightly ridiculous when talking to a friend who is in reality sitting on the sofa on the other side of the room, only two metres away).
Anyway, today I was feeling much better - the drugs had been working, I had my voice back (partly), and on top of all that, I got a marvellous night's sleep and awoke to the first day of spring in Berlin, albeit halfway through March, but better late than never.
So after breakfast, I got my camera, mp3 player, sunglasses and hat, and lugged my new bike down all six flights of stairs (no lock-up facility in the basement, and also no lift in my building), and set off to discover undiscovered corners of Berlin.
Karl-Marx-Straße, the infamous Sonnenallee, Treptower Park, the Soviet Memorial, the Archenhold Sternwart (where a visitors' information board proudly announced that Albert Einstein had held his first lecture in Berlin on his newly discovered "Theory of Relativity" right here), then into Kreuzberg, one of the suburbs of inner Berlin which was split into two countries for 28 years by the Wall, and is now the thriving heart of Berlin's punk and alternative scene, in addition to being my favourite neighbourhood for drinks, shisha and general great nights out.
I began to make my way home - since it was St Pats day and all, I had various pubs to tour later in the day with my Irish flatmate and various other expats from the Emerald Isle, and had stuff to do before that. Coasting down an unassuming street, I noticed a metal display board at the side of the street, and slowed down to have a better look.
The site was the location of a tunnel built in 1962, through which 29 people escaped from East Berlin to West Berlin.
Bam. A subtle reminder (if I needed one) that Berlin has only been a reunified city for twenty years, and that East Germany and West Germany existed in my lifetime: these escapes were in the lifetimes of my parents, from a regime which was only brought down in 1989.
Love this city.
The Button Bag
button bag. /bΛtn bæg/. noun.
1. The convergence of stylish accessory and wearable conversation piece in a spectacularly alternative, slightly bohemian and completely unique hessian shoulder bag with the ability to bridge international cultural & linguistic barriers and built-in travel bragging rights for the owner.
And I am the proud owner of the only one.
Let me explain. To tell the full story, I have to take you back in time to mid-August 2007. Location: Sarajevo, Bosnia.
I had been on the road for a few weeks, just me, my passport and my backpack, exploring Eastern Europe for the first time. The previous four years had consisted mostly of travel or work in various countries in Western Europe, and in September of 2007, I was due to continue that trend by taking up a position as a teaching assistant at a high school in southern Berlin. My curiousity surrounding the mysterious lands which had for so long remained in the shadow of the Iron Curtain had finally got the better of me, and I had decided that enough was enough: five weeks before I was due to start work, I dumped my winter stuff at a friend's place in Berlin and set off a five-week "Magical Mystery Tour" of the no-visa-required-for-Australians countries of south-eastern Europe.
Bosnia (ok, technically "and Herzegovina too") was the fifth country on my tour; prior to arriving in Bosnia, I had explored the grey concreteness of Slovakia, visited the Paprika Museums and thermal baths of Hungary, rowed on the most beautiful mountain lake ever in Slovenia, partied until dawn with fellow backpacking expats on the beaches of Croatia, and had slowly started to get used to the Eastern European mindset. From Bosnia, I would be heading further east toward Serbia, Bulgaria and the Black Sea, before finishing up the tour in Romania, then returning to "reality" in Berlin.
Bosnia had in just two days claimed the enviable title of being my favourite country on the tour, and Sarajevo without a doubt the crown of my favourite city of the five weeks so far. It achieved this status within two days, and by the time I left, Sarajevo's status had been elevated to the rank of "One of Australis' Top 5 Cities". (In case you're interested, the others are Melbourne a clear #1, Berlin the runner up at #2, Istanbul a close third, and Marrakech scraping in at fourth - Sarajevo is number 5, just above Fes.)
I would happily have spent an entire week in Bosnia, but unfortunately, the two days I had in Sarajevo were all my time budget would allow for, and after a day of walking around Sarajevo from one historical site to another, which were most inconveniently situated at least five kilometres apart, I was ready for a Pivo or two, and began to make my way back to the hostel for beer and börek, starting to contemplate exactly what form my Bosnian souvenir would take.
My policy for souvenirs so far on that tour had been a self-imposed minimalistic one: a postcard from each country, and if I really liked the place, a pair of earrings. Yes, yours truly has an earring problem.
Bosnia was however the exception to the souvenir policy. For two reasons.
Number 1, I loved the place. At that time, I hadn't yet been to Turkey or Morocco, and Sarajevo had a taste of the East - of Asia and of the Middle East - that I found mesmerising, intoxicating and most definitely addictive, and I resolved to return; in the meantime, a truly stupendous souvenir was in order.
And the second reason? In addition to my large backpack, I'd been carting a small day pack around for a few weeks. The experiences of the previous three weeks had instilled in me a whole new level of awareness of my personal security, and my small daypack just wasn't doing the job. I had noticed along the way that a satchel was without a doubt a better alternative in terms of protecting the contents of my bag from the increasing creativity and pickpocketing talents of the gypsy street urchins.
However considering I only had two more weeks on the road, a new bag wasn't really a priority, especially since I had already experienced the problem of finding one that I liked enough to part with my Bosnian Convertible Marks for, and also finding one that I hadn't already seen in every tourist-targeting, "typically-Eastern-European" bazzaar I had meandered through in the previous three weeks. In spite of this hurdle, the lack of versatility noted while wearing a backpack as a satchel had caused me to contemplate the notion of investing in a shoulder bag at some stage.
It was this dilemma which was occupying my mind while wandering around the marketplace, trying to find my way back to my hostel. As usual, I'd got lost in the narrow winding alleyways of the bazaar.
I got to the end of an alleyway, which looked like every other alleyway in the bazaar, turned a corner, and suddenly in front of me, in a narrow lane I had somehow never discovered before, was a small textile store. It was in the shadows of the neighbouring buildings, and the front window was dusty, but through the glass I could see a number of shoulder bags: two were embroidered with traditional Bosnian patterns, and one was a hessian shoulder bag covered in all manner of buttons. I had had my eye on something typically Bosnian, and initially considered one of the woven bags, but half an hour later, I left the store with a little less Bosnian currency and the button bag.
This is where the best part of the story starts. Up until then, as far as I was aware, this was a completely normal bag. Yes, it was covered in a myriad of buttons of different sizes, shapes and colours, but aside from that, it seemed to be your average slightly bohemian shoulder bag. Right?
Wrong.
The button bag is, as my previous definition stated, "the convergence of stylish accessory and wearable conversation piece in a spectacularly alternative, slightly bohemian and completely unique hessian shoulder bag with the ability to bridge international cultural & linguistic barriers and built-in travel bragging rights for the owner."
It's all of that, and so much more. As if that's not enough, you even can carry stuff in it!
Ok, I admit it: the "stylish" part is debatable, especially if you consider that style is subjective - the Button Bag certainly doesn't compete in the league of Dior, Dolce & Gabbana, or Gucci. I'm not sure I'd want it to.
But the rest of it is completely true. It is most definitely alternative and bohemian - it's not the kind of thing you'd see sold at David Jones or Myer at Chadstone, or in Macys in New York City: more the kind of thing you'd see in an alternative chic store along Brunswick St in Fitzroy or around the area of Friedrichshain or Kreuzberg in Berlin.
Unique? Yes. The elderly woman behind the counter who sold me this wonderful souvenir made it herself, using a selection of buttons she had taken from her own collection, built up over the previous twenty years in her time as a tailor and seamstress.
Travel bragging rights? Absolutely. But we'll get to that.
It's the "ability to bridge international cultural and linguistic barriers" that turned out to be the bag's greatest strength.
Who knew that a humble shoulder bag could be such a conversation starter? The strength of this conversation starting ability is all the more proven by the fact that it has not only started conversations between myself and random strangers in Australia, where everyone's your "mate" and everyone will quite happily have a good old natter with someone they met less than five minutes ago, have no idea of their name and most probably will never see again in their life, but also in Germany, a country whose folk are not exactly renowned for their friendliness toward strangers in public. Or indeed at all.
I have actually lost count of the number of interactions or conversations which have been instigated by a random stranger's interest in my button bag - whether it be in the bus, the train, at the market, at the Department of Immigration while applying for my visa and work permit, at the post office, or just about anywhere at all. There are also varying levels of interest. The lowest is a vague glance, usually followed by the infamous double take. This occasionally leads to level two, in which the person who has noticed the Button Bag attempts to attract the attention of the person accompanying them and direct it toward my bag. Level three involves the two of them starting a conversation about the bag, which is rather entertaining for me to watch, as they talk about my bag, which usually leads to level four, in which they make eye contact with me and smile politely, continuing their conversation while marvelling at my fabulous accessory. This usually leads to level five; the conversation.
The conversation typically involves two questions:
1. "Did you sew those on yourself?" The more bohemian the neighbourhood or the asker, the more tempted I am to say "Yes, I have collected buttons all my life and sewed them all on to an otherwise mundane hessian shoulder bag." In Berlin, that's an entirely feasible answer, but I remain proud of the fact that at last count, the replies are as follows: "Yes, I did it myself" - 0. "No, I bought it like that" - quite possibly in the hundreds by now.
My negative answer to the first question is typically followed by this question:
2. "Where did you get it?" Remember how I mentioned the "travel bragging rights"? This is where that comes into play. Whenever I am asked this, and I answer with a casual "I bought it in Sarajevo a few years ago", I am usually greeted with an expression of wonder at my extensive travel experiences, quickly followed by confusion as the asker considers the question "Why on earth would anyone travel to Bosnia - voluntarily?"
Usually by this stage, we've arrived at either my or the asker's train station, one of us is next in the queue for Turkish bread at the market or there is a rather annoyed postal worker behind the desk demanding that we pay attention to her, and we bid each other good day and go our separate ways.
But the attraction of the button bag has worked its magic on yet another person.
And I am the proud owner of the only one.
1. The convergence of stylish accessory and wearable conversation piece in a spectacularly alternative, slightly bohemian and completely unique hessian shoulder bag with the ability to bridge international cultural & linguistic barriers and built-in travel bragging rights for the owner.
And I am the proud owner of the only one.
Let me explain. To tell the full story, I have to take you back in time to mid-August 2007. Location: Sarajevo, Bosnia.
I had been on the road for a few weeks, just me, my passport and my backpack, exploring Eastern Europe for the first time. The previous four years had consisted mostly of travel or work in various countries in Western Europe, and in September of 2007, I was due to continue that trend by taking up a position as a teaching assistant at a high school in southern Berlin. My curiousity surrounding the mysterious lands which had for so long remained in the shadow of the Iron Curtain had finally got the better of me, and I had decided that enough was enough: five weeks before I was due to start work, I dumped my winter stuff at a friend's place in Berlin and set off a five-week "Magical Mystery Tour" of the no-visa-required-for-Australians countries of south-eastern Europe.
Bosnia (ok, technically "and Herzegovina too") was the fifth country on my tour; prior to arriving in Bosnia, I had explored the grey concreteness of Slovakia, visited the Paprika Museums and thermal baths of Hungary, rowed on the most beautiful mountain lake ever in Slovenia, partied until dawn with fellow backpacking expats on the beaches of Croatia, and had slowly started to get used to the Eastern European mindset. From Bosnia, I would be heading further east toward Serbia, Bulgaria and the Black Sea, before finishing up the tour in Romania, then returning to "reality" in Berlin.
Bosnia had in just two days claimed the enviable title of being my favourite country on the tour, and Sarajevo without a doubt the crown of my favourite city of the five weeks so far. It achieved this status within two days, and by the time I left, Sarajevo's status had been elevated to the rank of "One of Australis' Top 5 Cities". (In case you're interested, the others are Melbourne a clear #1, Berlin the runner up at #2, Istanbul a close third, and Marrakech scraping in at fourth - Sarajevo is number 5, just above Fes.)
I would happily have spent an entire week in Bosnia, but unfortunately, the two days I had in Sarajevo were all my time budget would allow for, and after a day of walking around Sarajevo from one historical site to another, which were most inconveniently situated at least five kilometres apart, I was ready for a Pivo or two, and began to make my way back to the hostel for beer and börek, starting to contemplate exactly what form my Bosnian souvenir would take.
My policy for souvenirs so far on that tour had been a self-imposed minimalistic one: a postcard from each country, and if I really liked the place, a pair of earrings. Yes, yours truly has an earring problem.
Bosnia was however the exception to the souvenir policy. For two reasons.
Number 1, I loved the place. At that time, I hadn't yet been to Turkey or Morocco, and Sarajevo had a taste of the East - of Asia and of the Middle East - that I found mesmerising, intoxicating and most definitely addictive, and I resolved to return; in the meantime, a truly stupendous souvenir was in order.
And the second reason? In addition to my large backpack, I'd been carting a small day pack around for a few weeks. The experiences of the previous three weeks had instilled in me a whole new level of awareness of my personal security, and my small daypack just wasn't doing the job. I had noticed along the way that a satchel was without a doubt a better alternative in terms of protecting the contents of my bag from the increasing creativity and pickpocketing talents of the gypsy street urchins.
However considering I only had two more weeks on the road, a new bag wasn't really a priority, especially since I had already experienced the problem of finding one that I liked enough to part with my Bosnian Convertible Marks for, and also finding one that I hadn't already seen in every tourist-targeting, "typically-Eastern-European" bazzaar I had meandered through in the previous three weeks. In spite of this hurdle, the lack of versatility noted while wearing a backpack as a satchel had caused me to contemplate the notion of investing in a shoulder bag at some stage.
It was this dilemma which was occupying my mind while wandering around the marketplace, trying to find my way back to my hostel. As usual, I'd got lost in the narrow winding alleyways of the bazaar.
I got to the end of an alleyway, which looked like every other alleyway in the bazaar, turned a corner, and suddenly in front of me, in a narrow lane I had somehow never discovered before, was a small textile store. It was in the shadows of the neighbouring buildings, and the front window was dusty, but through the glass I could see a number of shoulder bags: two were embroidered with traditional Bosnian patterns, and one was a hessian shoulder bag covered in all manner of buttons. I had had my eye on something typically Bosnian, and initially considered one of the woven bags, but half an hour later, I left the store with a little less Bosnian currency and the button bag.
This is where the best part of the story starts. Up until then, as far as I was aware, this was a completely normal bag. Yes, it was covered in a myriad of buttons of different sizes, shapes and colours, but aside from that, it seemed to be your average slightly bohemian shoulder bag. Right?
Wrong.
The button bag is, as my previous definition stated, "the convergence of stylish accessory and wearable conversation piece in a spectacularly alternative, slightly bohemian and completely unique hessian shoulder bag with the ability to bridge international cultural & linguistic barriers and built-in travel bragging rights for the owner."
It's all of that, and so much more. As if that's not enough, you even can carry stuff in it!
Ok, I admit it: the "stylish" part is debatable, especially if you consider that style is subjective - the Button Bag certainly doesn't compete in the league of Dior, Dolce & Gabbana, or Gucci. I'm not sure I'd want it to.
But the rest of it is completely true. It is most definitely alternative and bohemian - it's not the kind of thing you'd see sold at David Jones or Myer at Chadstone, or in Macys in New York City: more the kind of thing you'd see in an alternative chic store along Brunswick St in Fitzroy or around the area of Friedrichshain or Kreuzberg in Berlin.
Unique? Yes. The elderly woman behind the counter who sold me this wonderful souvenir made it herself, using a selection of buttons she had taken from her own collection, built up over the previous twenty years in her time as a tailor and seamstress.
Travel bragging rights? Absolutely. But we'll get to that.
It's the "ability to bridge international cultural and linguistic barriers" that turned out to be the bag's greatest strength.
Who knew that a humble shoulder bag could be such a conversation starter? The strength of this conversation starting ability is all the more proven by the fact that it has not only started conversations between myself and random strangers in Australia, where everyone's your "mate" and everyone will quite happily have a good old natter with someone they met less than five minutes ago, have no idea of their name and most probably will never see again in their life, but also in Germany, a country whose folk are not exactly renowned for their friendliness toward strangers in public. Or indeed at all.
I have actually lost count of the number of interactions or conversations which have been instigated by a random stranger's interest in my button bag - whether it be in the bus, the train, at the market, at the Department of Immigration while applying for my visa and work permit, at the post office, or just about anywhere at all. There are also varying levels of interest. The lowest is a vague glance, usually followed by the infamous double take. This occasionally leads to level two, in which the person who has noticed the Button Bag attempts to attract the attention of the person accompanying them and direct it toward my bag. Level three involves the two of them starting a conversation about the bag, which is rather entertaining for me to watch, as they talk about my bag, which usually leads to level four, in which they make eye contact with me and smile politely, continuing their conversation while marvelling at my fabulous accessory. This usually leads to level five; the conversation.
The conversation typically involves two questions:
1. "Did you sew those on yourself?" The more bohemian the neighbourhood or the asker, the more tempted I am to say "Yes, I have collected buttons all my life and sewed them all on to an otherwise mundane hessian shoulder bag." In Berlin, that's an entirely feasible answer, but I remain proud of the fact that at last count, the replies are as follows: "Yes, I did it myself" - 0. "No, I bought it like that" - quite possibly in the hundreds by now.
My negative answer to the first question is typically followed by this question:
2. "Where did you get it?" Remember how I mentioned the "travel bragging rights"? This is where that comes into play. Whenever I am asked this, and I answer with a casual "I bought it in Sarajevo a few years ago", I am usually greeted with an expression of wonder at my extensive travel experiences, quickly followed by confusion as the asker considers the question "Why on earth would anyone travel to Bosnia - voluntarily?"
Usually by this stage, we've arrived at either my or the asker's train station, one of us is next in the queue for Turkish bread at the market or there is a rather annoyed postal worker behind the desk demanding that we pay attention to her, and we bid each other good day and go our separate ways.
But the attraction of the button bag has worked its magic on yet another person.
And I am the proud owner of the only one.
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