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.

Reflections on the year

Over pasta and pre-made Bolognese sauce a few night ago – mostly because I couldn’t be bothered cooking – I pulled out the diary, which I hadn’t written in for months. That’s actually a long time for me – usually it’s at least every week, at the bare minimum.

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.