Germany has something of a reputation for being environmentally friendly, and despite Berlin's population being comparable to Melbourne (approximately 3.5million), the German capital is amazingly compact - it's perfect for cyclists, and the vast majority of residents rely either on their bikes or on the admittedly quite incredible public transport system - the BVG.
Compared to other public transport systems I've experienced around the world, especially the dog's breakfast that is metlink, the Melbourne public transport disaster, Berlin's BVG is a masterpiece. It's not perfect - after all, it's run by humans - but it's a bloody lot better than anything other public transport system I've seen.
In the carriages, again, a testament to German efficiency, 20cm TV screens broadcast news, sport, weather, Hollywood gossip and events and in and around Berlin to the commuters. For almost the entire month of February 2009, Australia was making headlines around the world for all the wrong reasons - cyclones and floods in the north, earthquakes, a disastrous oil slick, and in my home state of Victoria, the worst bushfires in recorded history, just kilometres from my home city. Unfortunately I was reminded of this hellfire around my home every morning and every afternoon on my commute to work.
Anyway, one particular morning on the way to work in late February, Australia was yet again the focus of the news: this time it was the heatwaves in southern Australia. The screens are in pairs - usually one display shows the story, and the other a related photo. Sam the Koala had been a favourite photo for recent weeks, so I was rather surprised to see a story about Australia that wasn't accompanied by the grey, fluffy, bushfire survivor.
What was even more surprising was the photo chosen to accompany this particular story.
Sam hadn't been replaced by one of his fellow marsupials - he hadn't even been replaced by a dingo, or an emu, or a crocodile, or a fruit bat, which at least would have counted as Australian.
He had been replaced by a freaking giraffe.
Huh???
Musings from a rusty Estonain bus.
Musings from a rusty Estonian bus.
(Note: I was flipping through my journal the other day, and found a few of the blog-worthy pieces that I had put together while on the road recently in Estonia and Latvia. Here's one of them - more to come.)
Currently it's Sunday the 12th of April, and I'm trundling down the highway in eastern Estonia on a rickety old bus that in any other country with the exception of Russia, Ukraine, Bosnia or Moldova would have long since been consigned to the scrap heap (oh, by the way, I think we just left the transmission on the road about 100m back...).
Accompanying me is a busload of overstyled eastern European teeny boppers, more babushkas than I care to count and an entire regiment of the Estonian army.
Since I'd planned to be on this bus for about two and a half hours, I have of course brought my trusty mp3 and my journal - there's still 179km between us and our destination, Tartu, a university town in southern Estonia, a stone's throw from the Russian border.
And yes, my calculations of 179km in 2 1/2 hours are correct - this feat of Estonian engineering is chugging along at the lightning speed of approximately 70km/h. Even my 1987 Toyota Corolla could beat this. But considering the Estonian government department responsible for infrastructure seems to have chosen to lay the road with bitumen over a layer of industrial corrugated iron, speeds akin to those on Australian or German highways aren't entirely realistic, or even possible, on this particular road.
I've tuned out the chaos of the rest of the passengers and have quite happily settled in for two and a half hours of iriver music, when one of the army boys' mobile phones rings behind me.
And suddenly I hear the familiar sound of a drummer tapping his drumsticks on some VB bottles, followed by the melodic flute introduction to one of Australia's many unofficial anthems.
Men At Work - Down Under. Random.
(Note: I was flipping through my journal the other day, and found a few of the blog-worthy pieces that I had put together while on the road recently in Estonia and Latvia. Here's one of them - more to come.)
Currently it's Sunday the 12th of April, and I'm trundling down the highway in eastern Estonia on a rickety old bus that in any other country with the exception of Russia, Ukraine, Bosnia or Moldova would have long since been consigned to the scrap heap (oh, by the way, I think we just left the transmission on the road about 100m back...).
Accompanying me is a busload of overstyled eastern European teeny boppers, more babushkas than I care to count and an entire regiment of the Estonian army.
Since I'd planned to be on this bus for about two and a half hours, I have of course brought my trusty mp3 and my journal - there's still 179km between us and our destination, Tartu, a university town in southern Estonia, a stone's throw from the Russian border.
And yes, my calculations of 179km in 2 1/2 hours are correct - this feat of Estonian engineering is chugging along at the lightning speed of approximately 70km/h. Even my 1987 Toyota Corolla could beat this. But considering the Estonian government department responsible for infrastructure seems to have chosen to lay the road with bitumen over a layer of industrial corrugated iron, speeds akin to those on Australian or German highways aren't entirely realistic, or even possible, on this particular road.
I've tuned out the chaos of the rest of the passengers and have quite happily settled in for two and a half hours of iriver music, when one of the army boys' mobile phones rings behind me.
And suddenly I hear the familiar sound of a drummer tapping his drumsticks on some VB bottles, followed by the melodic flute introduction to one of Australia's many unofficial anthems.
Men At Work - Down Under. Random.
Permission to heart Berlin until at least 2012!
It's official. After having submitted my application for a work permit and German residency in early March, and being told that the processing time would be six to eight weeks (yes, and I'm the Queen of England - just excuse me for a moment while I polish my crown...), Australis now has two pretty new pink stickers in her funky blue passport with a kangaroo and an emu on the front.
Might not sound like much, but these two stickers mean that yours truly has (finally!!!) been granted permission from the German Immigration Department, which I like to call "Höllenbrut" (roughly translates to "Hellspawn"), to remain a resident of the poor but sexy capital of the Bundesrepublik Deutschland until May 2011.
On top of that, the Federal Employment Office approved my work permit until 2012, so technically, it's a two-year residency, with automatic renewal for a third year, and as the icing on a truly stupendously amazing Kuchen, after three years, this permit becomes permanent. As of 2013, I'm a permanent resident of Germany, with unlimited employment rights. UNLIMITED!!!
Who knew it would only take two phone calls and five emails a day for the last two weeks to get an answer from them?
Oh, and in case you're curious, just because they gave me a visa today, and a two-year one at that, doesn't mean they're no longer hellspawn.
Telling an expat, and one from Australia no less, a country that is not only on a different continent, but a mere thirteen time zones and 14,500km away from Germany, and therefore a destination for which travel plans, let alone permanent relocation arrangements, require months of planning and lots and lots of €€€ (and even more $AUD), that the processing time for their residency application will take approximately six to eight weeks maximum, then proceeding to ignore all contact attempts from said Australian applicant, including but not limited to calls, emails, faxes and smoke signals, until four working days before their previous visa expires (ELEVEN WEEKS after the initial application was submitted), is beyond cruel and unusual torture.
Then, imagine my disbelief when the case worker assigned to me had the nerve to tell tell me today with typical German bureaucratic attitude "It was completely unnecessary to call and email us every day in the last few weeks. We were going to contact you eventually. You just need to learn to be patient."
The steam coming from my ears could have powered Puffing Billy for a good few months.
The Ausländerbehörde still = Höllenbrut.
(German Immigration = Hellspawn.)
But I have a visa, and that's reason enough for beer o'clock. As an added bonus, tonight I'm heading out to the movies with a friend: "Wolverine" - in English (yay!), Hugh Jackman looking incredible, and all of this with my mate Hans. Good times are in store.
Might not sound like much, but these two stickers mean that yours truly has (finally!!!) been granted permission from the German Immigration Department, which I like to call "Höllenbrut" (roughly translates to "Hellspawn"), to remain a resident of the poor but sexy capital of the Bundesrepublik Deutschland until May 2011.
On top of that, the Federal Employment Office approved my work permit until 2012, so technically, it's a two-year residency, with automatic renewal for a third year, and as the icing on a truly stupendously amazing Kuchen, after three years, this permit becomes permanent. As of 2013, I'm a permanent resident of Germany, with unlimited employment rights. UNLIMITED!!!
Who knew it would only take two phone calls and five emails a day for the last two weeks to get an answer from them?
Oh, and in case you're curious, just because they gave me a visa today, and a two-year one at that, doesn't mean they're no longer hellspawn.
Telling an expat, and one from Australia no less, a country that is not only on a different continent, but a mere thirteen time zones and 14,500km away from Germany, and therefore a destination for which travel plans, let alone permanent relocation arrangements, require months of planning and lots and lots of €€€ (and even more $AUD), that the processing time for their residency application will take approximately six to eight weeks maximum, then proceeding to ignore all contact attempts from said Australian applicant, including but not limited to calls, emails, faxes and smoke signals, until four working days before their previous visa expires (ELEVEN WEEKS after the initial application was submitted), is beyond cruel and unusual torture.
Then, imagine my disbelief when the case worker assigned to me had the nerve to tell tell me today with typical German bureaucratic attitude "It was completely unnecessary to call and email us every day in the last few weeks. We were going to contact you eventually. You just need to learn to be patient."
The steam coming from my ears could have powered Puffing Billy for a good few months.
The Ausländerbehörde still = Höllenbrut.
(German Immigration = Hellspawn.)
But I have a visa, and that's reason enough for beer o'clock. As an added bonus, tonight I'm heading out to the movies with a friend: "Wolverine" - in English (yay!), Hugh Jackman looking incredible, and all of this with my mate Hans. Good times are in store.
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