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.
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
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.
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.
The Winds Of Change
The winds of change are in the air. Still in Hamburg, and still plodding along at work, but two events have taken place, which resulted in an admission of error and a decision to make a change to fix that error.
Event number 1 - a weekend sailing on the Baltic with some of my Berlin friends. Possibly the best way to chill and clear your head in northern Germany - or anywhere, for that matter. Sea air, good friends, German beer, northern German dice games at 1am, some good conversation, and a few days away from Hamburg and work - ah, bliss. Also inspiration from Harold and Maude to not worry so much about what other people think of you.
Event number 2 - one of these friends told me something that I had actually known subconsciously for a long time: I think too much. I over-analyse things. And not just the life-changing, monumental issues - the tiny stuff, that in a matter of weeks, days, or in many instances, hours, will have been long relegated to the file "Not worth remembering".
This leads me to a question: am I alone here? How many of you actually nodded in sympathetic agreement whilst reading the above admission? Changing my FB status alone to reflect this new mindset of "less thinking, more doing" resulted in a wall post and an instant message within half an hour. I welcome your comments.
Event 1 + Event 2 = Result: I am moving back to Berlin. Soon - within a fortnight. Reasons vary: work, friends & (substitute) family, and instinct/gut feeling/mindset.
First, the job is not at all what I thought it would be. I'm not someone who enjoys working completely alone. I need to have people around me both at work and in general with a similarly positive and enthusiastic outlook, for mutual motivation and support. I am also someone with ambition and direction. I need to know that both myself and the company I work for are going somewhere, that what I do at work actually has a purpose in the grand scheme of things. Hamburg doesn't fit the bill for me at the moment.
Second, my friends and one of my German families are in Berlin, and I truly miss them. Fair enough, I've only been in Hamburg for three weeks, which is definitely not enough to create a friendship group here, but I already have a circle of friends in Berlin, which is enough of a reason for me to seriously consider going back.
Third - I'm in a Berlin state of mind, to quote Mr Joel. I'm not finished with that city, and I want to maximise my time there. It's an incredible city and I feel just as much at home there as I do in my native Melbourne. Sounds strange to most of you, but I know at least Blonde Canadian knows how I feel. I need to go back there.
So, it will be "Goodbye Hamburg - nice knowing you", and a reunion with my beloved Berlin next weekend. That prospect alone is already giving me the motivation to continue through this week.
I'll keep you posted.
Event number 1 - a weekend sailing on the Baltic with some of my Berlin friends. Possibly the best way to chill and clear your head in northern Germany - or anywhere, for that matter. Sea air, good friends, German beer, northern German dice games at 1am, some good conversation, and a few days away from Hamburg and work - ah, bliss. Also inspiration from Harold and Maude to not worry so much about what other people think of you.
Event number 2 - one of these friends told me something that I had actually known subconsciously for a long time: I think too much. I over-analyse things. And not just the life-changing, monumental issues - the tiny stuff, that in a matter of weeks, days, or in many instances, hours, will have been long relegated to the file "Not worth remembering".
This leads me to a question: am I alone here? How many of you actually nodded in sympathetic agreement whilst reading the above admission? Changing my FB status alone to reflect this new mindset of "less thinking, more doing" resulted in a wall post and an instant message within half an hour. I welcome your comments.
Event 1 + Event 2 = Result: I am moving back to Berlin. Soon - within a fortnight. Reasons vary: work, friends & (substitute) family, and instinct/gut feeling/mindset.
First, the job is not at all what I thought it would be. I'm not someone who enjoys working completely alone. I need to have people around me both at work and in general with a similarly positive and enthusiastic outlook, for mutual motivation and support. I am also someone with ambition and direction. I need to know that both myself and the company I work for are going somewhere, that what I do at work actually has a purpose in the grand scheme of things. Hamburg doesn't fit the bill for me at the moment.
Second, my friends and one of my German families are in Berlin, and I truly miss them. Fair enough, I've only been in Hamburg for three weeks, which is definitely not enough to create a friendship group here, but I already have a circle of friends in Berlin, which is enough of a reason for me to seriously consider going back.
Third - I'm in a Berlin state of mind, to quote Mr Joel. I'm not finished with that city, and I want to maximise my time there. It's an incredible city and I feel just as much at home there as I do in my native Melbourne. Sounds strange to most of you, but I know at least Blonde Canadian knows how I feel. I need to go back there.
So, it will be "Goodbye Hamburg - nice knowing you", and a reunion with my beloved Berlin next weekend. That prospect alone is already giving me the motivation to continue through this week.
I'll keep you posted.
Customers and their randomness...
The weird thing about working in a store in Germany... well, there are many weird things. The first - no, the main one - is the customers. Strange customers and their strange comments and opinions are without a doubt an international plague.
Example: a woman at the cafe I used to work at in Melbourne who would come in at least once a week, order herself a coffee and a muffin, sit at a table and proceed to have a lengthy and earnest yet almost silent argument with herself, at the end of which she would present a member of staff with a small gift, usually a perfume or hand cream sample from one of the major department stores in the centre, before leaving the store without a further word.
Here, the customers might not talk to themselves, but the way they talk to each other or even to me about Australia is sometimes astounding. The first afternoon I worked here, I noticed a rather scruffy looking old man standing outside reading one of our window signs, then shaking his head at it before pushing the door open. At first glance he looks rather average, however having lived in Germany for a while, I can spot the homeless a mile away - unidentifiable stains on his clothes, years of street grime staining the back of his hands and his fingernails, and a faint aroma of urine and stale beer following him like a cloud. He looks at one of the displays at the back of the store.
In German: "You sell meat?"
"Yes, we do. We sell kangaroo meat and also emu sausage." Both of which I find revolting, but that's just my opinion.
"Why do you kill animals so that you can continue your life?"
Oh, god. Here we go. Not just your average homeless looney tunes, but a vegan one hankering for an argument. And on top of that, it's in German. My Deutsch skills are good, but I don't have an answer for a question like that in any language that would satisfy him. He takes my "Tja" - the German equivalent of - "Well..." as an admission of moral corruption and an invitation to preach. For the next five minutes, he proceeds to bombard me with opinions and self-righteous statements concerning veganism and the Ten Commandments: as he very bluntly reminded me, "Thou shalt not kill" is one of them. Eventually he loses the will to argue with me - mostly because I refuse to argue with him - and leaves the store.
Two days later he's back. This time the boomerang is the bone of contention. He sees that we have two designs of boomerang, and knows from the previous encounter that I am Australian, and now flying solo in the store (1 day of training for a full time position was considered completely adequate - the fact that my trainer spent over 50% of the day on flirtcafe.de is totally irrelevant.). He goes in for the kill. "What's the story?" he asks me, pointing to the boomerang display. Note: in German, the word for 'story' is the same as the one for 'history'. I have no idea which one he means. I ask.
"You're Australian. This is an Australian store. Boomerangs are from Australia. You should be able to tell me the history of the boomerang."
You've got to be kidding me. Where do I start with the issues here? I don't. I tell him that there's two main styles of boomerang that we stock: the returning boomerang and the hunting boomerang.
"Wrong. There are three types."
And yet again, I get a lecture from Mr Wikipedia himself, this time on the topic of the history of the boomerang.
Then there's the inspiration for this blog: the woman who just left the store. She and a friend came in and had a bit of a look around. I quickly realised that she would be one of those who would find everything in the store too expensive, and would clearly target me, the salesperson, as the reason for this daylight robbery. I agree, our stock is expensive, but with good reason: it's known as freight, and considering Australia is on the other side of the world, the extra charge for us to bring Australia, or pieces thereof, to Germany and alleviate the need for our customers to either go there themselves to buy things or to order things online and pay postage from Australia independently is a small price to pay. Most people understand that.
This woman didn't. First stop: Blundstones. Yes, they're expensive.
"Do you have kids sizes?"
"Yes, we do, but unfortunately we have limited stock at the moment."
"I wouldn't buy them anyway. They're too expensive and they're not worth it for kids - they grow too fast."
I can see in her eyes that there's no possiblity for a rational discussion here.
Five minutes later at the register, as they're paying (incidentally, the woman bought one of those tourist-targeting green and gold slouch hats with the corks on the brim), her friend blurts out "Someone died in Australia recently."
Well, yes, I'm sure someone has died in Australia at some stage. I bite my tongue however and suggest the name Steve Irwin, since that's one of the few Aussies people know over here.
"Yeah, the crazy guy who had it coming."
This got my back up. For two reasons. First, it's extremely bad taste. Even if it were toned down, only Australians can say something like that, and even then, only in a group of Australians, because we understand the black humour. Second, from other nationalities, I would be prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt when it comes to sense of humour - maybe I just don't get theirs. And in Germany, that's been proven before. It took months for Simon and I to figure out each other's sense of humour. But this woman had such an insulting and negative tone in her voice that it was all I could do to ignore the comment and politely ask for the 7.99 for the stuffed koala she'd selected.
"And the kid's continuing - she's just like her father. Disgraceful mother encouraging it. I suppose she's rich though. Dead husband, but still rich," she said with a glare as she waddled out of the store.
I was speechless.
Example: a woman at the cafe I used to work at in Melbourne who would come in at least once a week, order herself a coffee and a muffin, sit at a table and proceed to have a lengthy and earnest yet almost silent argument with herself, at the end of which she would present a member of staff with a small gift, usually a perfume or hand cream sample from one of the major department stores in the centre, before leaving the store without a further word.
Here, the customers might not talk to themselves, but the way they talk to each other or even to me about Australia is sometimes astounding. The first afternoon I worked here, I noticed a rather scruffy looking old man standing outside reading one of our window signs, then shaking his head at it before pushing the door open. At first glance he looks rather average, however having lived in Germany for a while, I can spot the homeless a mile away - unidentifiable stains on his clothes, years of street grime staining the back of his hands and his fingernails, and a faint aroma of urine and stale beer following him like a cloud. He looks at one of the displays at the back of the store.
In German: "You sell meat?"
"Yes, we do. We sell kangaroo meat and also emu sausage." Both of which I find revolting, but that's just my opinion.
"Why do you kill animals so that you can continue your life?"
Oh, god. Here we go. Not just your average homeless looney tunes, but a vegan one hankering for an argument. And on top of that, it's in German. My Deutsch skills are good, but I don't have an answer for a question like that in any language that would satisfy him. He takes my "Tja" - the German equivalent of - "Well..." as an admission of moral corruption and an invitation to preach. For the next five minutes, he proceeds to bombard me with opinions and self-righteous statements concerning veganism and the Ten Commandments: as he very bluntly reminded me, "Thou shalt not kill" is one of them. Eventually he loses the will to argue with me - mostly because I refuse to argue with him - and leaves the store.
Two days later he's back. This time the boomerang is the bone of contention. He sees that we have two designs of boomerang, and knows from the previous encounter that I am Australian, and now flying solo in the store (1 day of training for a full time position was considered completely adequate - the fact that my trainer spent over 50% of the day on flirtcafe.de is totally irrelevant.). He goes in for the kill. "What's the story?" he asks me, pointing to the boomerang display. Note: in German, the word for 'story' is the same as the one for 'history'. I have no idea which one he means. I ask.
"You're Australian. This is an Australian store. Boomerangs are from Australia. You should be able to tell me the history of the boomerang."
You've got to be kidding me. Where do I start with the issues here? I don't. I tell him that there's two main styles of boomerang that we stock: the returning boomerang and the hunting boomerang.
"Wrong. There are three types."
And yet again, I get a lecture from Mr Wikipedia himself, this time on the topic of the history of the boomerang.
Then there's the inspiration for this blog: the woman who just left the store. She and a friend came in and had a bit of a look around. I quickly realised that she would be one of those who would find everything in the store too expensive, and would clearly target me, the salesperson, as the reason for this daylight robbery. I agree, our stock is expensive, but with good reason: it's known as freight, and considering Australia is on the other side of the world, the extra charge for us to bring Australia, or pieces thereof, to Germany and alleviate the need for our customers to either go there themselves to buy things or to order things online and pay postage from Australia independently is a small price to pay. Most people understand that.
This woman didn't. First stop: Blundstones. Yes, they're expensive.
"Do you have kids sizes?"
"Yes, we do, but unfortunately we have limited stock at the moment."
"I wouldn't buy them anyway. They're too expensive and they're not worth it for kids - they grow too fast."
I can see in her eyes that there's no possiblity for a rational discussion here.
Five minutes later at the register, as they're paying (incidentally, the woman bought one of those tourist-targeting green and gold slouch hats with the corks on the brim), her friend blurts out "Someone died in Australia recently."
Well, yes, I'm sure someone has died in Australia at some stage. I bite my tongue however and suggest the name Steve Irwin, since that's one of the few Aussies people know over here.
"Yeah, the crazy guy who had it coming."
This got my back up. For two reasons. First, it's extremely bad taste. Even if it were toned down, only Australians can say something like that, and even then, only in a group of Australians, because we understand the black humour. Second, from other nationalities, I would be prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt when it comes to sense of humour - maybe I just don't get theirs. And in Germany, that's been proven before. It took months for Simon and I to figure out each other's sense of humour. But this woman had such an insulting and negative tone in her voice that it was all I could do to ignore the comment and politely ask for the 7.99 for the stuffed koala she'd selected.
"And the kid's continuing - she's just like her father. Disgraceful mother encouraging it. I suppose she's rich though. Dead husband, but still rich," she said with a glare as she waddled out of the store.
I was speechless.
Auf Wiedersehen Berlin.
Seriously, I have no idea where the last 10 months have gone. It seems like just yesterday I was still at work in stationery with Zoe. and the team, counting down the days until I escaped for Germany and a year in Berlin, and now it’s the end of May, and I’m packing up again, but this time to move within Germany. And on that topic, it is truly incredible how much junk you can accumulate in a year. The paper rubbish alone has filled four of the trusty green Coles shopping bags, and the other random rubbish – yes, it’s taken me about two weeks, off and on, to pack up my flat. Made all the more difficult by the magnificent weather outside in Berlin, the hundreds of “end-of-the-year-and-probably-the-last-time-we’ll-see-each-other” shindigs with the other assistants, and yes, travel too: well, wouldn’t you do the same thing if you had 10 days off in the middle of May, three eager travel buddies, a few hundred Euros saved, and return flights to Morocco were less than 200€ return? Yes, you know you would.
Anyway, it’s my last weekend in
I’ve got mixed feelings about the move to
But for now, it’s a new city, new job, new flat, new friends – it’ll be a challenge, and I know I’ll be busy for the first month – actually, for a lot longer than just the first month, but I can’t wait. I’m definitely ready for a change – school’s been pretty boring for the last few months, with over half of my lessons being cancelled for some reason or another, and I’m looking forward to leaving. I’ll miss my table buddies in the staff room – Simon, Christa and Conny, and some of the other staff, and definitely some of my classes, but I won’t be half sad to leave like I was in Kusel. I’m ready for some serious work – something I can get my teeth into, and from what I’ve seen of the Berlin branch of the company I'm joining, there’s definitely plenty for me to do. I can’t wait to get started; I’m also going to get an English conversation class running there, which should be good. We’ll see how it goes.
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