I don't usually take taxis. My habitual way of getting around Berlin is either public transport, walking a lot further than most normal people would, or cruising around on my beloved bike.
In foreign cities, that changes. Some are the perfect size to walk around, some have amazing public transport networks, and some are just too big and too hot to avoid taxis for the entire trip.
When I was in New York recently, my options were just those three: subway, walk or taxi. I'd happily walk, especially in a massive city like New York (you never know what gems you might find when you wander through the smaller streets and laneways), but the two weeks I was in New York, every day was over 35°C with high humidity, and I just didn't have the energy to walk for miles and miles in the sun. No one did.
The subway... well, the New York subway has earned its very own blog post. Suffice to say it's hot. Very hot. And very humid. The day I met the subject of this blog post was my last day in New York, and I was on my way to the airport. At the other end of the overnight flight back to Berlin, I would have to go from the airport straight back to work, so I'd just showered and was clean and shiny. The thing about the subway in summer, from my few days' experience, is that while the upper level where you buy tickets is relatively cool, the lower level is a public sauna. Anything more than about ten seconds on the platform and you're sweating as if you were standing on St Kilda beach at 3pm on a scorching February afternoon in Melbourne, wearing thermals and a ski suit, wrapped up in an alpine-warmth sleeping bag and a foil heat blanket, demolishing a chicken vindaloo. Yeah, you're sweating. A lot.
So since I definitely didn't want to be all sweaty for the next twelve hours at the airport, on the plane, at Heathrow Airport, on another plane, and for my entire shift at the other end of the flight, I decided to splash out on an air-conditioned cab ride. Just as I went outside the hotel where I was staying, a so-called "town car" pulled up - a sleek black sedan with a leather and mahogany interior, air-con and tinted windows. As the door man helped the passengers out and the bellhop got their luggage, I asked the other doorman to hail me a taxi and I waited with my backpack in the shade at the door.
"Well, instead of a taxi, would you like to take this town car instead? Same price, just a little more comfortable."
Is this a trick question? Uh... yes. Yes. Definitely yes.
We set off in air-conditioned comfort through the streets of Midtown and I watched my last few scenes of New York through the tinted windows, and had a bit of a chat with the driver along the way.
First question: "So, where are you off to?" he asked me.
"Berlin." And that started the rest.
After I explained to him that I live there but that I'm not German, and told him a bit about my studies, my work, and why I had tried so hard to get a place in Berlin, he began to tell me a bit about himself.
Turns out his name is Mike, he's originally from Brooklyn and he served in the US military in the 1970s and 1980s... in West Germany. He was sketchy on the details, but the one thing he would tell me is that as a way to earn some money on the side, he and some of his army mates worked as couriers, smuggling various small but valuable items across the border into East Germany. Among the more regular requests he received were Beatles and Rolling Stones records, Milka chocolate, food and particular groceries only available in the west, and bottles of Coca Cola (the fourth time he smuggled Coca Cola over the border was the only time the border guards' searches ever found anything).
When I asked him about the strangest thing anyone had ever asked him to smuggle over, he laughed, and said it was a tie between women's stockings in all manner of colours and styles for a 46-year-old cross-dressing accountant in Erfurt, and a Harley Davidson.
I had to ask.
Apparently a motorbike enthusiast in East Germany kept them in business for two years with a special order: he had arranged to have a Harley Davidson motorcycle delivered to a friend in West Germany, who then dismantled it and paid couriers like Mike and his army colleagues to smuggle it bit by bit across the border to him in East Germany, where he put it back together. The whole process took about two years, and amazingly none of the parts were ever found during border searches.
After having received all the parts and having reassembled the bike in his barn, this Harley nut could only ride it because he lived in a very rural area well away from border patrols, and then only in the darkness of the very early hours of the morning. On top of that, the amount he paid to have the bike dismantled and smuggled over was almost as much as the bike itself.
There were so many more questions I had for him - about his experiences with the border guards, what it was like when the wall fell and in the months and years after reunification, but as luck would have it, just as he finished the Harley story, we turned off the freeway, and a few moments later we pulled into the parking bay at the main terminal of JFK.
He seemed genuinely happy that I was so curious about his experiences, but by the same token, I got the distinct impression that just sharing the Harley story and telling me about his time moonlighting as a smuggler reminded him of other things he would rather not remember. Earlier in the conversation when I showed interest at the mention of his military experience in Germany, he started to tell me about the first few months living in Germany, and how the whole courier idea started. Apparently one of his mates had the idea, before -
And that's where he stopped, mid-sentence. It was as if Mike had suddenly remembered that he didn't know me from a bar of soap, and whatever came after "before" was something that he had just realised he didn't particular want to share with someone he'd known for all of five minutes. He didn't talk for a few minutes, and when he started again, it was the Coca Cola story - lighthearted, as if nothing had happened.
He didn't bring it up again - his friend, nor how the courier idea came about - and I knew better than to ask.
The moral of the story? Public transport is cheap, and walking still cheaper, but taxis, while pretty darn expensive comparatively, can pay dividends in story-telling material and invaluable experience, if you just ask the right questions.
By request
Everything I've posted on this blog so far has gone through one of two channels - one of two methods of composition. Either it's been an entry that involved on-site notes, preparation, drafts and self-editing, or it's a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants entry, that I write strictly off the cuff. Usually at ridiculous o'clock, which tends to be after midnight.
This is one of the latter. It's just past midnight, so it fits the time prerequisite, and it has absolutely no preparation: I didn't even know I was going to write it until about five minutes ago. Added bonus: this one has a dedication.
To Connor - for reminding me that I have a blog, and for informing me that there may just be some people aside from my totally awesome mum at home in Melbourne who actually enjoy taking a few minutes out of their day to peruse my latest musings.
So what's been going on recently? Well, suffice to say, a fair bit. A trip to New York and to D.C., a few days in the former with my sister and her boyfriend, summer in Berlin, ridiculously high temperatures leading to sleepless nights and rides through Berlin's government quarter at 1am (no better time to explore and take photos - hardly any tourists!), exploring abandoned Olympic villages and military complexes in western Berlin, watching movies on rooftops, riding my bike along the abandoned runways of old airports, some of our fantastic students bringing us icecream on really hot days to show their appreciation for all our hard work behind the reception desk, friends coming and going (unfortunately mostly going, or planning to go), and making plans for the next few years in Berlin.
All this has got the cogs turning in my head, leading to some serious thinking. I don't tend to do my best thinking inside - academic work excepted. Instead, I usually have a few places I go if I need to think, to clear my head, or to escape from the four walls of my flat for a while.
There's Paul-Linke-Ufer on the Landwehrkanal if I don't have the time (or the energy) to venture anywhere further. The Landwehrkanal is a tributary of the Spree river that runs through Berlin's inner southern suburbs - right through Kreuzberg, about 10 minutes' walk north of my place, and it's a great place to go on a summer night to hang out, enjoy a cold beer, dip your feet in the river, and watch the Kreuzberg locals practise their juggling routines or strum a tune on their guitar on the Maibachufer. It's also the same river I walked on in February when Berlin rediscovered the ice ages, so I definitely like that area - anywhere from Pannierstraße to Prinzenbrücke.
A little further, and south this time, is my latest discovery: the old Tempelhof airport. I've got a post in the works about that place - it's definitely earned it's own post - so I won't say too much about it here, but there's something very cool and extremely humbling about sitting under a century-old oak tree beside the runway of an airport that essentially saved the city you're living in from starvation only a few decades earlier, and all this within walking distance of your flat.
Even further afield are Berlin's lakes. I'm a water-baby: I grew up either in, beside or on the water, and I naturally gravitate toward the water when I need to relax or to take time out. The lakes are a fantastic escape from the city, but they require a packed lunch and a cooler - Müggelsee in the south is at least an hour and a half away by public transport, even with a bike to ride to and from the station, and Flughafensee in the north or Schlachtensee in the south-west aren't much closer, but if I've got the time and the energy, I'll venture to one of those.
The ultimate though? The ultimate is somewhere that I used to go a lot when I was little. Melbourne's beaches. Yes, Sydney-siders, Melbourne only has bay beaches, but half-metre waves make exactly the same sound as six-foot ocean swells when you listen to them crash on the shore. I spent almost every summer until I was about fifteen at my grandparents' beach house on the Mornington Peninsula - walking along the beach with my grandmother, collecting shells and materials for collages, and just talking. During the year, I'd go fishing or sailing with my late grandfather on his yacht on Port Philip Bay, and I loved it, for exactly the same reason - spending time on the water, listening to the waves lap at the side of the boat, escaping from the city, and talking to him and to my grandmother.
The last few years that I was living in Melbourne, my place of choice became the Esplanade in Brighton. It only took me about fifteen minutes to drive there from my place, and I could quite happily stay sitting on that beach for hours at a time - just thinking, mulling over what was going on in my world, and figuring out the next step - from sunset until well after the stars were twinkling across the skies. It was on the sand at Brighton beach at about 8pm on a summer night in late 2003 that I made the decision to apply for the assistant year in Kusel. It was on the same beach around the same time a few years later that I decided I would reapply for the same program in Berlin, and listening to the waves and watching the stars arc across the sky has provided me the space and clarity of mind to sort through other things in my world - work, friends, family, what I'm doing with my life... You know, the usual.
Like I said, there's a few things going on in my world at the moment - I think everyone is in the same boat - and there is almost nothing I wouldn't give to be able to get into my little white 1987 Corolla hatchback, cruise down North Road, hang a right onto the Esplanade and pull into the car park behind the Brighton bathing boxes, stroll down the ramp onto the sand, find a spot away from the floodlights and just think... listen to the waves, watch the stars, and just think. But I don't live there anymore: ironically the decision I made back there in early 2007 to move to Berlin has meant I can't just drive on down there.
But I've got my places here - Paul-Linke-Ufer, the oak tree at Tempelhof Airport, and the shores of Schlachtensee. These are my Brighton beaches in Berlin.
This is one of the latter. It's just past midnight, so it fits the time prerequisite, and it has absolutely no preparation: I didn't even know I was going to write it until about five minutes ago. Added bonus: this one has a dedication.
To Connor - for reminding me that I have a blog, and for informing me that there may just be some people aside from my totally awesome mum at home in Melbourne who actually enjoy taking a few minutes out of their day to peruse my latest musings.
So what's been going on recently? Well, suffice to say, a fair bit. A trip to New York and to D.C., a few days in the former with my sister and her boyfriend, summer in Berlin, ridiculously high temperatures leading to sleepless nights and rides through Berlin's government quarter at 1am (no better time to explore and take photos - hardly any tourists!), exploring abandoned Olympic villages and military complexes in western Berlin, watching movies on rooftops, riding my bike along the abandoned runways of old airports, some of our fantastic students bringing us icecream on really hot days to show their appreciation for all our hard work behind the reception desk, friends coming and going (unfortunately mostly going, or planning to go), and making plans for the next few years in Berlin.
All this has got the cogs turning in my head, leading to some serious thinking. I don't tend to do my best thinking inside - academic work excepted. Instead, I usually have a few places I go if I need to think, to clear my head, or to escape from the four walls of my flat for a while.
There's Paul-Linke-Ufer on the Landwehrkanal if I don't have the time (or the energy) to venture anywhere further. The Landwehrkanal is a tributary of the Spree river that runs through Berlin's inner southern suburbs - right through Kreuzberg, about 10 minutes' walk north of my place, and it's a great place to go on a summer night to hang out, enjoy a cold beer, dip your feet in the river, and watch the Kreuzberg locals practise their juggling routines or strum a tune on their guitar on the Maibachufer. It's also the same river I walked on in February when Berlin rediscovered the ice ages, so I definitely like that area - anywhere from Pannierstraße to Prinzenbrücke.
A little further, and south this time, is my latest discovery: the old Tempelhof airport. I've got a post in the works about that place - it's definitely earned it's own post - so I won't say too much about it here, but there's something very cool and extremely humbling about sitting under a century-old oak tree beside the runway of an airport that essentially saved the city you're living in from starvation only a few decades earlier, and all this within walking distance of your flat.
Even further afield are Berlin's lakes. I'm a water-baby: I grew up either in, beside or on the water, and I naturally gravitate toward the water when I need to relax or to take time out. The lakes are a fantastic escape from the city, but they require a packed lunch and a cooler - Müggelsee in the south is at least an hour and a half away by public transport, even with a bike to ride to and from the station, and Flughafensee in the north or Schlachtensee in the south-west aren't much closer, but if I've got the time and the energy, I'll venture to one of those.
The ultimate though? The ultimate is somewhere that I used to go a lot when I was little. Melbourne's beaches. Yes, Sydney-siders, Melbourne only has bay beaches, but half-metre waves make exactly the same sound as six-foot ocean swells when you listen to them crash on the shore. I spent almost every summer until I was about fifteen at my grandparents' beach house on the Mornington Peninsula - walking along the beach with my grandmother, collecting shells and materials for collages, and just talking. During the year, I'd go fishing or sailing with my late grandfather on his yacht on Port Philip Bay, and I loved it, for exactly the same reason - spending time on the water, listening to the waves lap at the side of the boat, escaping from the city, and talking to him and to my grandmother.
The last few years that I was living in Melbourne, my place of choice became the Esplanade in Brighton. It only took me about fifteen minutes to drive there from my place, and I could quite happily stay sitting on that beach for hours at a time - just thinking, mulling over what was going on in my world, and figuring out the next step - from sunset until well after the stars were twinkling across the skies. It was on the sand at Brighton beach at about 8pm on a summer night in late 2003 that I made the decision to apply for the assistant year in Kusel. It was on the same beach around the same time a few years later that I decided I would reapply for the same program in Berlin, and listening to the waves and watching the stars arc across the sky has provided me the space and clarity of mind to sort through other things in my world - work, friends, family, what I'm doing with my life... You know, the usual.
Like I said, there's a few things going on in my world at the moment - I think everyone is in the same boat - and there is almost nothing I wouldn't give to be able to get into my little white 1987 Corolla hatchback, cruise down North Road, hang a right onto the Esplanade and pull into the car park behind the Brighton bathing boxes, stroll down the ramp onto the sand, find a spot away from the floodlights and just think... listen to the waves, watch the stars, and just think. But I don't live there anymore: ironically the decision I made back there in early 2007 to move to Berlin has meant I can't just drive on down there.
But I've got my places here - Paul-Linke-Ufer, the oak tree at Tempelhof Airport, and the shores of Schlachtensee. These are my Brighton beaches in Berlin.
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