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.
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.
The trouble with English...
I have to admit, one of the things I love about being fluent in two languages and having skills in a further two is having the option to codeswitch, to switch into the another language and plead foreigner when people bug me – gypsies, beggars, salespeople, people handing out fliers on the street, or wanting you to sign their petition for/against [fill in the gap].
In Australia, it works like a charm – while Australians do learn languages at school, and the classics of French and the like feature, the focus is logically on Asian languages. On top of that, with the exception of people from non-English-speaking backgrounds, most people’s skills extend to a vague high school level and rarely any further. Brilliant.
In Germany, it doesn't work quite so well. Sometimes, yes, the pure shock of receiving a quick “No, thanks” to their casual icebreaker is enough to cut people off at the pass and they let you walk by. But other times I’m reminded that having English as my default switch language in Germany, or in the majority of countries in Europe, if not the world, does not have the same power that German does at home. Possibly because English is the most studied language on the planet (the often-quoted statistic that the number of native speakers of English is vastly outnumbered by the number of people learning English in China is astounding but true). By the way, my backups of French and Italian also often feature in people’s linguistic repertoire here – and their language level is almost always better than mine, so aside from the fact that my usual attire of jeans, Cons and a hoodie is nowhere near chic enough to pretend to be a Parisienne or a Florentine, I'm also linguistically out-skilled.
So the default switch remains English. And sure, sometimes you can get away with it – either because the other person’s English isn’t up to the level required or they just can’t be bothered to translate their sales pitch on the spot. Or because my Australian accent freaked them out a little.
Other times though, you weigh up the odds, and you decide to play that card, thereby calling someone’s bluff that they don’t speak English, or at least not enough to continue annoying you…
And it blows up in your face, usually in a rather spectacular fashion.
Example 1. Mid July, 2008. Sitting at a pavement table with a good friend of mine in Berlin at a cheap burger place in Kreuzberg, a very “uni student” area (cheap, alternative, and just a little grotty), happily chatting away in English over some delicious potato wedges, mayo and ketchup.
Enter random homeless guy.
He’s holding his beer as if someone might try to wrench it from his grasp at any moment, smells like a brewery and looks like he hasn’t showered in months, possibly years, but his German is remarkably non-slurred. He stands at one end of our table and starts making small talk with us – complaining about something or other, and just begging for us to start a conversation with him. Neither of us are really interested, and after politely nodding and smiling and making small talk with him in German for a few minutes, we switch back to English and continue our own conversation, hoping he’ll take this as a subtle “Please go away” signal.
He doesn't. To our horror, he takes a seat and follows our lead, switching to surprisingly fluent English. Turns out this guy lived in England for a good few years, studied at some university there (Oxford comes to mind, but I can’t remember exactly), and apparently retained his language skills.
Bugger.
For the next twenty minutes or so, we are subjected to his ramblings on all manner of topics which he thought essential to discuss with us, including an apparent dislike of America. Oh, and he also decided to bring up the Australian government’s treatment of the Aboriginal community, which he then compared to the slave trade in America. It was obvious that he had very little information about the situation or the history, and I ceased talking to him at this stage. He continued talking to, or rather at, my friend for a while, insulting America all the way. By the way, she’s American, which he knew.
We kept hoping he’d run out of steam and leave of his own accord, but he never seemed to. So, as soon as we’d finished our beers, we bid him goodnight (yeah, we’re too polite and subtle for our own good – need to learn some of that German directness), and made a run for it. He got up after us, and made a move to follow us for a few minutes, but fortunately we wove our way through the evening pedestrian traffic on Oranienstrasse and lost him.
I have no doubt that this will not be the last blog post on the dilemmas of code switching into English. Stay tuned…
In Australia, it works like a charm – while Australians do learn languages at school, and the classics of French and the like feature, the focus is logically on Asian languages. On top of that, with the exception of people from non-English-speaking backgrounds, most people’s skills extend to a vague high school level and rarely any further. Brilliant.
In Germany, it doesn't work quite so well. Sometimes, yes, the pure shock of receiving a quick “No, thanks” to their casual icebreaker is enough to cut people off at the pass and they let you walk by. But other times I’m reminded that having English as my default switch language in Germany, or in the majority of countries in Europe, if not the world, does not have the same power that German does at home. Possibly because English is the most studied language on the planet (the often-quoted statistic that the number of native speakers of English is vastly outnumbered by the number of people learning English in China is astounding but true). By the way, my backups of French and Italian also often feature in people’s linguistic repertoire here – and their language level is almost always better than mine, so aside from the fact that my usual attire of jeans, Cons and a hoodie is nowhere near chic enough to pretend to be a Parisienne or a Florentine, I'm also linguistically out-skilled.
So the default switch remains English. And sure, sometimes you can get away with it – either because the other person’s English isn’t up to the level required or they just can’t be bothered to translate their sales pitch on the spot. Or because my Australian accent freaked them out a little.
Other times though, you weigh up the odds, and you decide to play that card, thereby calling someone’s bluff that they don’t speak English, or at least not enough to continue annoying you…
And it blows up in your face, usually in a rather spectacular fashion.
Example 1. Mid July, 2008. Sitting at a pavement table with a good friend of mine in Berlin at a cheap burger place in Kreuzberg, a very “uni student” area (cheap, alternative, and just a little grotty), happily chatting away in English over some delicious potato wedges, mayo and ketchup.
Enter random homeless guy.
He’s holding his beer as if someone might try to wrench it from his grasp at any moment, smells like a brewery and looks like he hasn’t showered in months, possibly years, but his German is remarkably non-slurred. He stands at one end of our table and starts making small talk with us – complaining about something or other, and just begging for us to start a conversation with him. Neither of us are really interested, and after politely nodding and smiling and making small talk with him in German for a few minutes, we switch back to English and continue our own conversation, hoping he’ll take this as a subtle “Please go away” signal.
He doesn't. To our horror, he takes a seat and follows our lead, switching to surprisingly fluent English. Turns out this guy lived in England for a good few years, studied at some university there (Oxford comes to mind, but I can’t remember exactly), and apparently retained his language skills.
Bugger.
For the next twenty minutes or so, we are subjected to his ramblings on all manner of topics which he thought essential to discuss with us, including an apparent dislike of America. Oh, and he also decided to bring up the Australian government’s treatment of the Aboriginal community, which he then compared to the slave trade in America. It was obvious that he had very little information about the situation or the history, and I ceased talking to him at this stage. He continued talking to, or rather at, my friend for a while, insulting America all the way. By the way, she’s American, which he knew.
We kept hoping he’d run out of steam and leave of his own accord, but he never seemed to. So, as soon as we’d finished our beers, we bid him goodnight (yeah, we’re too polite and subtle for our own good – need to learn some of that German directness), and made a run for it. He got up after us, and made a move to follow us for a few minutes, but fortunately we wove our way through the evening pedestrian traffic on Oranienstrasse and lost him.
I have no doubt that this will not be the last blog post on the dilemmas of code switching into English. Stay tuned…
Reflections on the year
It’s amazing how a few months can completely change you.
Take today. Got home from work, and for some reason decided the mountain of papers I had dumped on the black wooden TV table I had inherited from a previous resident of my share flat could no longer remain there. So over pasta and Lidl’s attempt at bolognese sauce, I got comfy on my new Ikea discount sofa, and I began to sort them.
There was all kinds of stuff in there – photos of my family and my friends, postcards from Turkey, Morocco, most of eastern Europe and many other places, brief pages of scribbled dot-point notes which had since turned into lesson plans for my jungle-like year 9 classes, CDs people burnt for me, official-looking letters from German companies calling me “Frau _____ ” (or, more often that not, “Herr ____ ”: I don’t get it – my first name is not exactly uncommon in Germany) and handwritten ones from both of my grandmothers in Australia (the latter being a much more welcome sight in my letterbox than the former)… and a stack of notebook pages covered with scribbled diary entries from the last year.
It’s been just on a year since I moved here. Never been away from Australia that long before. And it’s going to get up to 18 months before I get back home. And in the last year, a whole lot has gone down – old friends, heaps and heaps of new friends, new accommodation times three, getting used to calling one of the most vibrant and lively cities in the world my home, and a hell of a lot of travelling.
I guess my point is just how much I love the way travel changes you. How much you learn about your world and about yourself. And it doesn't matter if you’re backpacking through former Soviet states or remote villages of northern Africa, or living and working in a vibrant European capital. Main thing is being away from what you’re used to, and becoming completely self-reliant – knowing that your family isn’t just around the corner. Actually, that home, family and most of your friends are just about as far away as physically possible while remaining on this planet.
You’re on your own – flying free, and without a safety net, and while it can be really scary at first, the feeling discovering you have what it takes to make a life for yourself overseas, and to make it work, is its own reward.
Hope I'm this cool when I'm 80.
Funkiness and octogenerians don't have to be mutually exclusive.
I think this could only happen in Berlin though. The city where you could wear anything at all, and you would fit in. Seriously, anything goes here. Emo, goth, punk, street übercool, preppy, don't-care, fashionista/fashion victim, indie, bohemian. Or a mix of all of them. All at once. I haven't seen that in any other city. Ok, yes, I have seen all of that in other cities, but not all at once, and not without some strange looks and negative comments from passers-by.
Anyways, to the point. U Bahn Johannisthaler Chaussee, south-eastern Berlin, 13.45 today. I'm on the way to my local WiFi cafe. I get off the bus, head down to the platform, and join the throng of people waiting for the train, passing the time by surfing through tracks on my iriver, day-dreaming and people-watching...
I glance toward the stairs coming down from the street above, and see a pair of stockinged feet in navy Chuck Taylors. Nothing unusual. I turn my head the other way, then look back a moment later. Walking past me is a grey-haired lady around my grandmother's age, immaculately dressed in a scarlet red jacket and skirt, a complementary silk scarf around her neck, her jewellery and makeup elegant and stylish.
And navy Chuck Taylors on her feet.
As she walks further down the platform, she attracts the attention of most of the others on the platform. Some raise their eyebrows, others nudge the person beside them and subtly (or not so subtly) point.
I, like the others, watch her continue down the platform. Yet unlike the others, mine is an expression of deep admiration and respect.
I can only hope that I'm that cool when I'm 80. You go, Oma.
I think this could only happen in Berlin though. The city where you could wear anything at all, and you would fit in. Seriously, anything goes here. Emo, goth, punk, street übercool, preppy, don't-care, fashionista/fashion victim, indie, bohemian. Or a mix of all of them. All at once. I haven't seen that in any other city. Ok, yes, I have seen all of that in other cities, but not all at once, and not without some strange looks and negative comments from passers-by.
Anyways, to the point. U Bahn Johannisthaler Chaussee, south-eastern Berlin, 13.45 today. I'm on the way to my local WiFi cafe. I get off the bus, head down to the platform, and join the throng of people waiting for the train, passing the time by surfing through tracks on my iriver, day-dreaming and people-watching...
I glance toward the stairs coming down from the street above, and see a pair of stockinged feet in navy Chuck Taylors. Nothing unusual. I turn my head the other way, then look back a moment later. Walking past me is a grey-haired lady around my grandmother's age, immaculately dressed in a scarlet red jacket and skirt, a complementary silk scarf around her neck, her jewellery and makeup elegant and stylish.
And navy Chuck Taylors on her feet.
As she walks further down the platform, she attracts the attention of most of the others on the platform. Some raise their eyebrows, others nudge the person beside them and subtly (or not so subtly) point.
I, like the others, watch her continue down the platform. Yet unlike the others, mine is an expression of deep admiration and respect.
I can only hope that I'm that cool when I'm 80. You go, Oma.
Warm summer nights on Berlin balconies...
This is one of the many things that I absolutely love about summer in Europe – the happy middle ground between an English and an Australian summer. The sun definitely has some warmth and strength in it, but you can quite happily sit in the sun for hours without frying; unlike in Australia, it’s not enough to enslave the general populus to air-conditioning to escape daytime highs in excess of 40°C and then force them into seasonal insomnia due to overnight lows only a few degrees under 30°C.
Today, for example, I spent mostly on my balcony, chilling out, reading up on the complexities of English grammar and pitying all those who had to do real work. I had both windows and the door open, I turned my speakers to face the balcony, took my laptop outside and inflicted the entire neighbourhood with my “Road Less Travelled” playlist while I was working: mostly the stuff that I've got from a variety of sources but hadn’t had a chance to listen to. Among the artists? Tocotronic, Die Ärzte (their new album and a lot of their back catalogue), Die Toten Hosen, The Wombats, The Decemberists, The National, Vampire Weekend, Interpol, The Hoosiers and Sunrise Avenue. Eclectic, I know.
I did venture down the road to Aldi around 7pm for salad ingredients, then returned to the balcony to eat a home-made spinach pizza with a crunchy salad while watching “Traumschiff Surprise” on DVD as the sun slowly made its way toward the north-western horizon, leaving the sky streaked with a thousand and one shades of pink, orange and red. It’s currently 10.30pm, and it is just now getting dark, and the night chorus of cicadas is starting up, although not to the volume that we’re accustomed to in Melbourne.
I love Berlin, I love summer, and I really love summer in Berlin.
Today, for example, I spent mostly on my balcony, chilling out, reading up on the complexities of English grammar and pitying all those who had to do real work. I had both windows and the door open, I turned my speakers to face the balcony, took my laptop outside and inflicted the entire neighbourhood with my “Road Less Travelled” playlist while I was working: mostly the stuff that I've got from a variety of sources but hadn’t had a chance to listen to. Among the artists? Tocotronic, Die Ärzte (their new album and a lot of their back catalogue), Die Toten Hosen, The Wombats, The Decemberists, The National, Vampire Weekend, Interpol, The Hoosiers and Sunrise Avenue. Eclectic, I know.
I did venture down the road to Aldi around 7pm for salad ingredients, then returned to the balcony to eat a home-made spinach pizza with a crunchy salad while watching “Traumschiff Surprise” on DVD as the sun slowly made its way toward the north-western horizon, leaving the sky streaked with a thousand and one shades of pink, orange and red. It’s currently 10.30pm, and it is just now getting dark, and the night chorus of cicadas is starting up, although not to the volume that we’re accustomed to in Melbourne.
I love Berlin, I love summer, and I really love summer in Berlin.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)