Beggars can't be choosers. Except in Berlin apparently.

I just have to share this anecdote.

Last Saturday, having been rostered on to work the weekend shift, I got to work about 5mins early, and as is usual for me on a Saturday, I had sacrificed breakfast time for snooze time, so by the time I actually got to work, I was indeed rather hungry, having not eaten since the night before. I knew I would be on my own at reception from 9.30am until 3pm, so if I was going to get food, it would have to happen on the way to work.

There's a bakery next door to my building, so I ducked in before going into the school and got myself two bread rolls and something called a "Nußschnecke" (loosely translates as a "nut snail", a scroll with ground nuts sprinkled over it), with the intention of making some lunch at work using the meagre ingredients of the two aforementioned bread rolls, the margarine that a colleague is generous enough to share with me, and my sacred jar of Vegemite.

But as luck would have it, this particular Saturday turned out to be one of those that wasn't ever really what you'd classify as busy - rather just constant. Every fifteen minutes or so, a rumbling kind of noise from my hungry stomach would remind me that I hadn't eaten, and I would think of my breakfast provisions in the kitchen, but every time I went to get up from the desk, either the phone would ring, a student would come to ask for help, or a prospective student would walk through the door, none of which I could really ignore.

Eventually it got to be 3pm, and having long since given up on the idea of having breakfast at work before going home, I put my Vegemite, the two bread rolls and the scroll into my backpack and headed on home.

Sitting on the train a few moments later, headphones in, my focus completely on writing legibly in my journal despite the arythmic rocking and jolting of the train, I did notice a very grotty pair of sneakers walk past me in the carriage. They belonged to a homeless man, a Strassenfeger vendor - one of the two Berlin street magazines: similar to The Big Issue. He did his usual spiel of having not been employed for over six months and being now authorised to sell this particular publication, and continued on to ask for donations of a few Euros or maybe something to eat or to drink. Usually I don't bother, but I've seen this guy on the train almost every day for the last few weeks, and he never seems to sell any of his newspapers.

So I took pity on him. I reached into my bag, pulled out the delicious Nußschnecke and beckoned him over. "Das können Sie ruhig haben, wenn Sie möchten," I told him politely, and handed him the bakery bag.

He half smiled. "Danke," he replied. "Wirklich, danke schön", he repeated and continued down the carriage to the door a few metres away.

When he got to the door, he took a peek in the bag. Then he turned and looked at me. "Was ist das?" he asked me, a quizzical look on his face.

"Nußschnecke," I told him.

"Na, das ist ja schön," he told me sarcastically, with an equally disdainful look. "That's great."

I was confused. I'd just given him food, and he was giving me attitude in return.

"Ich mag keine Nüsse. Hast du was anderes?"

I couldn't believe it. I'd just handed this guy my delicious Nußschnecke, my completely delectable nut scroll, out of pity for him and his situation, and he had the nerve to turn around to me and tell me, using the informal form of "you" no less, that you only use for children and people you know pretty well, that I should give him something else.

He doesn't like nuts.

Boo freaking hoo. That's the last time I give a homeless guy a nut scroll. Or food in general, for that matter. Soup kitchen, sure. Homeless shelter - absolutely. But no more of my food to the train beggars, if that's the thanks I get. Charming.

Germans and their Vegemite

I have no doubt that this will be a continuing series. Here's number two - Germans and their Vegemite.
The phone rings on an average Tuesday afternoon.
"How can I help you?" I ask politely after announcing the company name.
"Good afternoon. Do you have Vegemite?" In German, and of course straight to the point.
"Unfortunately we are completely out of stock of Vegemite at the moment, but we are expecting - "
"When will you get more Vegemite?"
Well, if you'd let me finish the first time... I take a deep breath. He's obviously one of those customers. "We're expecting a delivery by the end of the week."
"Do you have Marmite?"

I couldn't believe he asked. Such a poor substitute, but if you're not Australian, you usually don't notice the subtle difference in flavour. Short answer is "Yes, at the moment we have three jars of Marmite in stock."
"Is that all?"
Sorry, I forgot to mention the two thousand jars we've got in reserve in a warehouse in downtown Hamburg... okay, a little heavy on the sarcasm. "Yes, that's all we have for the moment. How many would you like?"
"I am the catering director of a cruise ship currently docked in Hamburg, and I need thirty-six jars of Vegemite."
"Well, we don't have any in stock at the moment, but I'm sure if you would like to give me a contact phone number, I can call the owner of the store and we could arrange a special order for you."
"We sail out on Friday. Can they be delivered by Thursday night?"

Ok, one second. First - I don't know where to start. Thirty-six jars of Vegemite? Even your average Coles Supermarket in Australia would rarely have that much stock on hand at any one time. But a small import business in Hamburg, catering predominantly for the niche expat market? No way, Jose. And all of this by Friday? Sorry, Thursday, ready for departure Friday morning? You've got better chances of a free return ticket on the next shuttle to the moon.

I am rather more careful with my words than that, and I inform Mr Caterer Extraordinaire that unfortunately that just isn't possible, as shipping from Australia alone can take up to ten weeks. He's rather displeased with this and wishes me a pleasant day. I hope he's not like that with all of his suppliers, for his company's sake.