In the last five minutes, I have managed to ascertain that spring has indeed finally sprung, for good, in Berlin.
I got home from tutoring tonight around 6pm. On the way home, I had been basking in the brilliant late afternoon sunshine streaming in through the windows of the tram, and by the time I got home, I was so energised by the sudden intake of Vitamin D that I abandoned my thrilling plans of burying myself in my blog or making some dinner while the sun was still relatively high in the sky, considering it was 6.30pm, and after a light-speed costume change, I jumped on my bike and wound my way through the narrow cobbled back streets of Neukölln to Görlitzer Park. I had spent most of Sunday there with a friend of mine, just chilling, dozing, soaking up the rays, and have since decided it is indeed one of my favourite parks in Berlin, if only for the people watching opportunities. Almost as good as Riga International Airport (More on that to come in a future entry).
Anyways, tonight I ended up back at Görlitzer Park, and no sooner had I cruised to a halt, claimed my two metres squared of grass and taken a drink of water, than I suddenly heard my name being called. Berlin is a city-sized village: one of my friend's former flatmates and one of his mates were on the grass only metres away. I hadn't seen them in ages, so I scooted over and hung out with them for a while.
As the sun began to sink lower toward the western horizon, taking with it the blue skies and leaving in its wake the first of the evening's stars, I remembered that since I had no lights on my derelict but trusty bike, I would have to leave before it got really dark - the German police are renowned for issuing on-the-spot fines for non-lit bikes, and I neither had the money nor the inclination to have my day spoiled by the Polizei.
As I made my way through the winding streets on my way back, I was treated to one of my favourite smells in the world: the smell of Berlin on a summer night. It wasn't quite as perfectly Berlin as it will be in a few months - June, July and August are the ultimate - but it was definitely there.
The deliciously hunger-inducing aroma of chicken and lamb slices sizzling in spicy marinades on döner kebab rotisseries around Neukölln, and the occasional wafts of perfumed smoke from the water pipes being smoked out on the pavement shisha bars all over Neukölln and Kreuzberg.
Australis hearts Berlin. Man, does she heart Berlin.
Showing posts with label Neukölln. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Neukölln. Show all posts
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.
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.
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