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.
Victoria's bushfire hell.
It's pretty rare that Australia makes the German news. The last time that happened was to announce the death of Heath Ledger in January of 2008, so when it does happen, it gets my attention. It's also very unlikely that the news is good.
I had known that the temperatures in my home state of Victoria and the neighbouring states of New South Wales and South Australia had been scorchingly high of late, with all three states experiencing multiple days of 45ºC and over, temperatures significantly above the normal summer highs of 40ºC, so it was only a matter of time until the first bushfire reports would begin to trickle through. Bushfires are a part of summer in Australia; some years are worse than others, for example Ash Wednesday of 1983, and the horrific Black Friday of 1939, both of which claimed many lives. Usually though, the maximum toll is limited to several hundred hectares of bush, some sheds and livestock, and occasionally some houses which were in the path of the fire. Very rarely are lives lost.
As soon as I heard the words "Australia" and "bushfire" in the Berlin radio news recently though, I knew that this could not be your average bushfire season, especially since the piece had made it all the way up the list to second billing behind the latest developments in the German financial crisis. I kept listening, and what I heard shocked me into silence.
Thirty-one fire fronts across the state. 330,000 hectares burnt out. Entire towns razed to the ground. 750 homes destroyed. 108 people confirmed dead, with this number rising all the time as more towns were reached. Thousands of people homeless. Emergency services working around the clock to bring the infernoes under control.
The worst part? Some of the fires are suspected to have been deliberately lit. The notion that anyone would concieve of lighting a match and setting it to the tinderbox that south-eastern Australia had become during the heatwave of the previous two weeks is nothing short of horrifically sickening. In one fell swoop, one or two individuals had created the worst bushfires in Australian history. Lives of innocent people have been extinguished, homes have been destroyed, communities decimated, and countless volunteers have, without a second thought, put their own lives at risk to fight bushfires which need never have been fought.
I know there's nothing I could do even if I was at home. But being this far away is torture - hearing via online reports and Berlin radio news updates that my home state is an deadly inferno is very difficult to handle. The fact that, as far as I know, my family and friends are very fortunately all safe, reassures me. But just because I don't know the hundreds of families who have been affected doesn't mean I'm not thinking of them, or that I'm any less upset.
This post was partly inspired by the ever-eloquent MD; therefore, I conclude with a brief quote from my favourite Inspector Rex fan.
"Love those around you. Hold them tight, tell them that you love them and never, ever let them forget it. ... Like most Victorians, I have friends affected by this - and some we're yet to hear from. If you've any prayers going spare, we could use them. ... So tonight, do me a favour. Hug someone you love. Tell them you love them. If not for you, then for all those who can't."
And my request to you? Pray for rain and a cool change, and an end to the inferno. Then tell your family and friends how much they mean to you, because there are 108 people who will never get the chance again.
I had known that the temperatures in my home state of Victoria and the neighbouring states of New South Wales and South Australia had been scorchingly high of late, with all three states experiencing multiple days of 45ºC and over, temperatures significantly above the normal summer highs of 40ºC, so it was only a matter of time until the first bushfire reports would begin to trickle through. Bushfires are a part of summer in Australia; some years are worse than others, for example Ash Wednesday of 1983, and the horrific Black Friday of 1939, both of which claimed many lives. Usually though, the maximum toll is limited to several hundred hectares of bush, some sheds and livestock, and occasionally some houses which were in the path of the fire. Very rarely are lives lost.
As soon as I heard the words "Australia" and "bushfire" in the Berlin radio news recently though, I knew that this could not be your average bushfire season, especially since the piece had made it all the way up the list to second billing behind the latest developments in the German financial crisis. I kept listening, and what I heard shocked me into silence.
Thirty-one fire fronts across the state. 330,000 hectares burnt out. Entire towns razed to the ground. 750 homes destroyed. 108 people confirmed dead, with this number rising all the time as more towns were reached. Thousands of people homeless. Emergency services working around the clock to bring the infernoes under control.
The worst part? Some of the fires are suspected to have been deliberately lit. The notion that anyone would concieve of lighting a match and setting it to the tinderbox that south-eastern Australia had become during the heatwave of the previous two weeks is nothing short of horrifically sickening. In one fell swoop, one or two individuals had created the worst bushfires in Australian history. Lives of innocent people have been extinguished, homes have been destroyed, communities decimated, and countless volunteers have, without a second thought, put their own lives at risk to fight bushfires which need never have been fought.
I know there's nothing I could do even if I was at home. But being this far away is torture - hearing via online reports and Berlin radio news updates that my home state is an deadly inferno is very difficult to handle. The fact that, as far as I know, my family and friends are very fortunately all safe, reassures me. But just because I don't know the hundreds of families who have been affected doesn't mean I'm not thinking of them, or that I'm any less upset.
This post was partly inspired by the ever-eloquent MD; therefore, I conclude with a brief quote from my favourite Inspector Rex fan.
"Love those around you. Hold them tight, tell them that you love them and never, ever let them forget it. ... Like most Victorians, I have friends affected by this - and some we're yet to hear from. If you've any prayers going spare, we could use them. ... So tonight, do me a favour. Hug someone you love. Tell them you love them. If not for you, then for all those who can't."
And my request to you? Pray for rain and a cool change, and an end to the inferno. Then tell your family and friends how much they mean to you, because there are 108 people who will never get the chance again.
Partial restoration of my faith in males.
I have a quite simply beautiful story to tell you.
Let's set the scene. Tuesday afternoon at work, about an hour before I knock off. I've been on my own at the reception desk since 9am, and I'm slightly stressed from trying to simultaneously sort out the day-to-day client issues and tackle the weekly mountain of paperwork and administration.
The computer has frozen, the phone is ringing, there are clients standing at the reception desk demanding my immediate and utmost attention, and my boss has chosen to stand in the corridor and watching me handle this alone, rather than step in and make herself useful.
I don't recognise the man standing before me, which is unusual, since I know almost all of the clients at least by face, if not by name.
"Can I help you?"
He replies in German. "I hope so. I need a favour." He confirms that he's not a client, past, present or future, but that he needs me to do him a favour nonetheless. I'm curious. "What can I do for you?"
He explains that he is looking for a native speaker of English who can also speak German to translate a letter for him. Considering the crowd of clients starting to gather behind him, I politely suggest he check the trusty annals of Google for a professional translator.
No, he explains: this isn't a standard letter. His girlfriend is Australian, and she's been living in the UK, but the financial crisis has forced her to return home to Australia on short notice, with no possibility or plans to return to Europe, all but sealing the fate of their relationship.
He explains that she is booked on a flight home early the following morning, and since he is too upset to tell her how he feels about her himself, he has written a letter which he wants to give to her. He doesn't have the words in English to express his feelings, so he's written it in German. Problem is, his girlfriend doesn't speak German. That's where the favour comes in.
I really sympathise with this guy, and I really want to help him, but I've got a thousand and one things to do - clients to deal with, my boss still watching my every move, and the phone is still ringing. I answer the phone, and while arranging an appointment, a light goes off in my head, and I realise how I can help this guy out while staying out of trouble with my boss - clearly I'm not supposed to be hawking my services as a translator while working at a language school.
I write an email address on a scrap of paper. "I can't help you out, but a friend of mine might be able to. Her English is native, and her German's good. Email her." I wish him luck, and pick up the receiver to answer the phone, returning my focus to my work.
That night, I check my emails. It was an alternate email address of mine that I wrote on that scrap of paper - one that I use when I don't want my name advertised. Sure enough, he'd emailed me. He explained the story again, and begged for my help in translating the attached text.
Well, Shakespeare or Goethe this guy is not, but the emotion in his writing made it clear to me that he was very much in love with this woman, and that her departure was leaving him in a world of heartache and pain. I replied, revealing my identity as the receptionist he begged for help, and promised to translate his writing as best I could.
As tempting as it is, I will not post his work on this blog - I respect his privacy and his rights an an author, and hope that the good writer's karma I'm sending out may come back to me eventually. Suffice to say that if I received a letter like this one from someone I was dating, I would be 100% and completely theirs.
Guys, take note.
Let's set the scene. Tuesday afternoon at work, about an hour before I knock off. I've been on my own at the reception desk since 9am, and I'm slightly stressed from trying to simultaneously sort out the day-to-day client issues and tackle the weekly mountain of paperwork and administration.
The computer has frozen, the phone is ringing, there are clients standing at the reception desk demanding my immediate and utmost attention, and my boss has chosen to stand in the corridor and watching me handle this alone, rather than step in and make herself useful.
I don't recognise the man standing before me, which is unusual, since I know almost all of the clients at least by face, if not by name.
"Can I help you?"
He replies in German. "I hope so. I need a favour." He confirms that he's not a client, past, present or future, but that he needs me to do him a favour nonetheless. I'm curious. "What can I do for you?"
He explains that he is looking for a native speaker of English who can also speak German to translate a letter for him. Considering the crowd of clients starting to gather behind him, I politely suggest he check the trusty annals of Google for a professional translator.
No, he explains: this isn't a standard letter. His girlfriend is Australian, and she's been living in the UK, but the financial crisis has forced her to return home to Australia on short notice, with no possibility or plans to return to Europe, all but sealing the fate of their relationship.
He explains that she is booked on a flight home early the following morning, and since he is too upset to tell her how he feels about her himself, he has written a letter which he wants to give to her. He doesn't have the words in English to express his feelings, so he's written it in German. Problem is, his girlfriend doesn't speak German. That's where the favour comes in.
I really sympathise with this guy, and I really want to help him, but I've got a thousand and one things to do - clients to deal with, my boss still watching my every move, and the phone is still ringing. I answer the phone, and while arranging an appointment, a light goes off in my head, and I realise how I can help this guy out while staying out of trouble with my boss - clearly I'm not supposed to be hawking my services as a translator while working at a language school.
I write an email address on a scrap of paper. "I can't help you out, but a friend of mine might be able to. Her English is native, and her German's good. Email her." I wish him luck, and pick up the receiver to answer the phone, returning my focus to my work.
That night, I check my emails. It was an alternate email address of mine that I wrote on that scrap of paper - one that I use when I don't want my name advertised. Sure enough, he'd emailed me. He explained the story again, and begged for my help in translating the attached text.
Well, Shakespeare or Goethe this guy is not, but the emotion in his writing made it clear to me that he was very much in love with this woman, and that her departure was leaving him in a world of heartache and pain. I replied, revealing my identity as the receptionist he begged for help, and promised to translate his writing as best I could.
As tempting as it is, I will not post his work on this blog - I respect his privacy and his rights an an author, and hope that the good writer's karma I'm sending out may come back to me eventually. Suffice to say that if I received a letter like this one from someone I was dating, I would be 100% and completely theirs.
Guys, take note.
More tourist capers...
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.
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.
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