Recurring visa issues have forced my work hours down to 20 hours per week, and while this is frustrating and somewhat inconvenient in terms of paying bills and enjoying this amazing city, it does have its benefits, one of which being that it leaves me with a bunch of free time during the week. So earlier this week, having finished work at 12.30, I decided that it was far too nice a Monday afternoon to spend it inside learning French and Italian vocabulary, and traded the language books for sunglasses, an MP3 player and my bike.
There are still a whole lot of places in and around Berlin that I want to explore more, so this particular afternoon I chose to venture north into Kreuzberg, specifically the area around Heinrich-Heine-Straße underground station.
Since this year is the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall, and since I'm a bit of a Berlin history nut, I've made it my mission to visit each of the East Berlin/West Berlin checkpoints before the summer is over. Heinrich-Heine-Straße is one of the two within about 15mins ride from my flat. More about Heinrich Heine in another blog post.
So I ventured over to this particular border crossing, and like many of the others, there's very little of it left. So little, in fact, that had I not found it on the offical website of Berlin city, I never would have known it existed. The watchtowers are gone. There are no wall fragments here. The only marker is the double row of paving stones crossing the street at the place where this now busy north-south thoroughfare was once truncated by the "anti-facist protective barrier" as it was referred to by the government of the GDR (former East Germany). You could quite happily cruise on past, completely oblivious to the fact that for twenty-eight years, Berlin's streets, underground network, its rivers and lakes, and most heartbreakingly, the lives of the Berliners, were severed in two by this wall.
Today, twenty years after reunification, the scars marking where the wall cut through the city are in various stages of healing. Some, like Checkpoint Charlie and Bernauer Straße, have been preserved exactly as they were, and the adjoining museums offer visitors a glimpse of what life was like in divided Berlin.
But other scars have begun to fade. Some, like the former train checkpoint at Friedrichstraße station, have retained the original structures. Most however are like Heinrich-Heine-Straße though; the Berlin Wall has been reduced to a thin line of cobblestones crossing the street, and life in Berlin takes place on both sides of the pavers as if nothing had ever happened.
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.
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.
Kangaroos, koalas, wombats... and giraffes?
Germany has something of a reputation for being environmentally friendly, and despite Berlin's population being comparable to Melbourne (approximately 3.5million), the German capital is amazingly compact - it's perfect for cyclists, and the vast majority of residents rely either on their bikes or on the admittedly quite incredible public transport system - the BVG.
Compared to other public transport systems I've experienced around the world, especially the dog's breakfast that is metlink, the Melbourne public transport disaster, Berlin's BVG is a masterpiece. It's not perfect - after all, it's run by humans - but it's a bloody lot better than anything other public transport system I've seen.
In the carriages, again, a testament to German efficiency, 20cm TV screens broadcast news, sport, weather, Hollywood gossip and events and in and around Berlin to the commuters. For almost the entire month of February 2009, Australia was making headlines around the world for all the wrong reasons - cyclones and floods in the north, earthquakes, a disastrous oil slick, and in my home state of Victoria, the worst bushfires in recorded history, just kilometres from my home city. Unfortunately I was reminded of this hellfire around my home every morning and every afternoon on my commute to work.
Anyway, one particular morning on the way to work in late February, Australia was yet again the focus of the news: this time it was the heatwaves in southern Australia. The screens are in pairs - usually one display shows the story, and the other a related photo. Sam the Koala had been a favourite photo for recent weeks, so I was rather surprised to see a story about Australia that wasn't accompanied by the grey, fluffy, bushfire survivor.
What was even more surprising was the photo chosen to accompany this particular story.
Sam hadn't been replaced by one of his fellow marsupials - he hadn't even been replaced by a dingo, or an emu, or a crocodile, or a fruit bat, which at least would have counted as Australian.
He had been replaced by a freaking giraffe.
Huh???
Compared to other public transport systems I've experienced around the world, especially the dog's breakfast that is metlink, the Melbourne public transport disaster, Berlin's BVG is a masterpiece. It's not perfect - after all, it's run by humans - but it's a bloody lot better than anything other public transport system I've seen.
In the carriages, again, a testament to German efficiency, 20cm TV screens broadcast news, sport, weather, Hollywood gossip and events and in and around Berlin to the commuters. For almost the entire month of February 2009, Australia was making headlines around the world for all the wrong reasons - cyclones and floods in the north, earthquakes, a disastrous oil slick, and in my home state of Victoria, the worst bushfires in recorded history, just kilometres from my home city. Unfortunately I was reminded of this hellfire around my home every morning and every afternoon on my commute to work.
Anyway, one particular morning on the way to work in late February, Australia was yet again the focus of the news: this time it was the heatwaves in southern Australia. The screens are in pairs - usually one display shows the story, and the other a related photo. Sam the Koala had been a favourite photo for recent weeks, so I was rather surprised to see a story about Australia that wasn't accompanied by the grey, fluffy, bushfire survivor.
What was even more surprising was the photo chosen to accompany this particular story.
Sam hadn't been replaced by one of his fellow marsupials - he hadn't even been replaced by a dingo, or an emu, or a crocodile, or a fruit bat, which at least would have counted as Australian.
He had been replaced by a freaking giraffe.
Huh???
Musings from a rusty Estonain bus.
Musings from a rusty Estonian bus.
(Note: I was flipping through my journal the other day, and found a few of the blog-worthy pieces that I had put together while on the road recently in Estonia and Latvia. Here's one of them - more to come.)
Currently it's Sunday the 12th of April, and I'm trundling down the highway in eastern Estonia on a rickety old bus that in any other country with the exception of Russia, Ukraine, Bosnia or Moldova would have long since been consigned to the scrap heap (oh, by the way, I think we just left the transmission on the road about 100m back...).
Accompanying me is a busload of overstyled eastern European teeny boppers, more babushkas than I care to count and an entire regiment of the Estonian army.
Since I'd planned to be on this bus for about two and a half hours, I have of course brought my trusty mp3 and my journal - there's still 179km between us and our destination, Tartu, a university town in southern Estonia, a stone's throw from the Russian border.
And yes, my calculations of 179km in 2 1/2 hours are correct - this feat of Estonian engineering is chugging along at the lightning speed of approximately 70km/h. Even my 1987 Toyota Corolla could beat this. But considering the Estonian government department responsible for infrastructure seems to have chosen to lay the road with bitumen over a layer of industrial corrugated iron, speeds akin to those on Australian or German highways aren't entirely realistic, or even possible, on this particular road.
I've tuned out the chaos of the rest of the passengers and have quite happily settled in for two and a half hours of iriver music, when one of the army boys' mobile phones rings behind me.
And suddenly I hear the familiar sound of a drummer tapping his drumsticks on some VB bottles, followed by the melodic flute introduction to one of Australia's many unofficial anthems.
Men At Work - Down Under. Random.
(Note: I was flipping through my journal the other day, and found a few of the blog-worthy pieces that I had put together while on the road recently in Estonia and Latvia. Here's one of them - more to come.)
Currently it's Sunday the 12th of April, and I'm trundling down the highway in eastern Estonia on a rickety old bus that in any other country with the exception of Russia, Ukraine, Bosnia or Moldova would have long since been consigned to the scrap heap (oh, by the way, I think we just left the transmission on the road about 100m back...).
Accompanying me is a busload of overstyled eastern European teeny boppers, more babushkas than I care to count and an entire regiment of the Estonian army.
Since I'd planned to be on this bus for about two and a half hours, I have of course brought my trusty mp3 and my journal - there's still 179km between us and our destination, Tartu, a university town in southern Estonia, a stone's throw from the Russian border.
And yes, my calculations of 179km in 2 1/2 hours are correct - this feat of Estonian engineering is chugging along at the lightning speed of approximately 70km/h. Even my 1987 Toyota Corolla could beat this. But considering the Estonian government department responsible for infrastructure seems to have chosen to lay the road with bitumen over a layer of industrial corrugated iron, speeds akin to those on Australian or German highways aren't entirely realistic, or even possible, on this particular road.
I've tuned out the chaos of the rest of the passengers and have quite happily settled in for two and a half hours of iriver music, when one of the army boys' mobile phones rings behind me.
And suddenly I hear the familiar sound of a drummer tapping his drumsticks on some VB bottles, followed by the melodic flute introduction to one of Australia's many unofficial anthems.
Men At Work - Down Under. Random.
Permission to heart Berlin until at least 2012!
It's official. After having submitted my application for a work permit and German residency in early March, and being told that the processing time would be six to eight weeks (yes, and I'm the Queen of England - just excuse me for a moment while I polish my crown...), Australis now has two pretty new pink stickers in her funky blue passport with a kangaroo and an emu on the front.
Might not sound like much, but these two stickers mean that yours truly has (finally!!!) been granted permission from the German Immigration Department, which I like to call "Höllenbrut" (roughly translates to "Hellspawn"), to remain a resident of the poor but sexy capital of the Bundesrepublik Deutschland until May 2011.
On top of that, the Federal Employment Office approved my work permit until 2012, so technically, it's a two-year residency, with automatic renewal for a third year, and as the icing on a truly stupendously amazing Kuchen, after three years, this permit becomes permanent. As of 2013, I'm a permanent resident of Germany, with unlimited employment rights. UNLIMITED!!!
Who knew it would only take two phone calls and five emails a day for the last two weeks to get an answer from them?
Oh, and in case you're curious, just because they gave me a visa today, and a two-year one at that, doesn't mean they're no longer hellspawn.
Telling an expat, and one from Australia no less, a country that is not only on a different continent, but a mere thirteen time zones and 14,500km away from Germany, and therefore a destination for which travel plans, let alone permanent relocation arrangements, require months of planning and lots and lots of €€€ (and even more $AUD), that the processing time for their residency application will take approximately six to eight weeks maximum, then proceeding to ignore all contact attempts from said Australian applicant, including but not limited to calls, emails, faxes and smoke signals, until four working days before their previous visa expires (ELEVEN WEEKS after the initial application was submitted), is beyond cruel and unusual torture.
Then, imagine my disbelief when the case worker assigned to me had the nerve to tell tell me today with typical German bureaucratic attitude "It was completely unnecessary to call and email us every day in the last few weeks. We were going to contact you eventually. You just need to learn to be patient."
The steam coming from my ears could have powered Puffing Billy for a good few months.
The Ausländerbehörde still = Höllenbrut.
(German Immigration = Hellspawn.)
But I have a visa, and that's reason enough for beer o'clock. As an added bonus, tonight I'm heading out to the movies with a friend: "Wolverine" - in English (yay!), Hugh Jackman looking incredible, and all of this with my mate Hans. Good times are in store.
Might not sound like much, but these two stickers mean that yours truly has (finally!!!) been granted permission from the German Immigration Department, which I like to call "Höllenbrut" (roughly translates to "Hellspawn"), to remain a resident of the poor but sexy capital of the Bundesrepublik Deutschland until May 2011.
On top of that, the Federal Employment Office approved my work permit until 2012, so technically, it's a two-year residency, with automatic renewal for a third year, and as the icing on a truly stupendously amazing Kuchen, after three years, this permit becomes permanent. As of 2013, I'm a permanent resident of Germany, with unlimited employment rights. UNLIMITED!!!
Who knew it would only take two phone calls and five emails a day for the last two weeks to get an answer from them?
Oh, and in case you're curious, just because they gave me a visa today, and a two-year one at that, doesn't mean they're no longer hellspawn.
Telling an expat, and one from Australia no less, a country that is not only on a different continent, but a mere thirteen time zones and 14,500km away from Germany, and therefore a destination for which travel plans, let alone permanent relocation arrangements, require months of planning and lots and lots of €€€ (and even more $AUD), that the processing time for their residency application will take approximately six to eight weeks maximum, then proceeding to ignore all contact attempts from said Australian applicant, including but not limited to calls, emails, faxes and smoke signals, until four working days before their previous visa expires (ELEVEN WEEKS after the initial application was submitted), is beyond cruel and unusual torture.
Then, imagine my disbelief when the case worker assigned to me had the nerve to tell tell me today with typical German bureaucratic attitude "It was completely unnecessary to call and email us every day in the last few weeks. We were going to contact you eventually. You just need to learn to be patient."
The steam coming from my ears could have powered Puffing Billy for a good few months.
The Ausländerbehörde still = Höllenbrut.
(German Immigration = Hellspawn.)
But I have a visa, and that's reason enough for beer o'clock. As an added bonus, tonight I'm heading out to the movies with a friend: "Wolverine" - in English (yay!), Hugh Jackman looking incredible, and all of this with my mate Hans. Good times are in store.
Mr Bauhaus Trolley Man
4.22pm on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon in January in wintry Berlin.
I'm working a split shift, so I have a few hours before I have to be back at work for round two. I've had enough of not having curtains - my room is on the third floor, and has a huge bay window, which is really great for the sunshine and natural light, but my room looks out onto a courtyard: 30m away on the other side is another apartment building also with bay windows on every floor, and next to that is a high school. Yes, not only can my neighbours stare right into my room, but on weekdays, about ninety students can watch my every move from the comfort of their classroom. *shiver*.
Anyway, there's a hardware store around the corner from me, so I ventured down there into the testosterone paradise that is the German hardware store, Bauhaus.
It's no Bunnings - the standard of service at the two DIY worlds are poles apart, and Bunnings' range is unparalleled, but Bauhaus isn't far off.
I wander around for a few minutes and eventually find the curtain rods and rings, without any help from their staff - all of the high school students I have ever taught showed more enthusiasm towards learning the past imperfect tense than German service staff show towards, well, service!
After a short period of deliberation, I decide to just note down some prices to compare with the Swedish homeware haven. Any excuse for an excursion to Ikea.
As I return towards the entrance to the store to continue on my journey around Berlin, preparing to brace myself for the subzero temperatures outside, I see something which brings an immediate grin to my face.
An older gentleman, perhaps in his late 60s or early 70s, is also making his way out of the store with a trolley laden with paint tins, curtain rods and various other items which suggested a spot of redecoration was in his very near future.
That's not the entertaining part.
The entertaining part is that suddenly this gentleman in his late 60s or early 70s suddenly takes a run-up of a few steps, leans forward, puts his entire weight on the trolley and coasts blissfully along through Bauhaus for about ten metres. His momentum starts to wane, so he repeats his run-up again and coasts a few more metres, before using his feet to brake just half a metre before the concrete steps down to the carpark.
Between Trolley Man and Oma Chuck Taylors, it is clear that even Berlin's senior generation has not lost its ability to embrace their inner youth, even if they only let it show when they're reasonably sure no one is watching.
Reason #43623 why Australis hearts Berlin.
I'm working a split shift, so I have a few hours before I have to be back at work for round two. I've had enough of not having curtains - my room is on the third floor, and has a huge bay window, which is really great for the sunshine and natural light, but my room looks out onto a courtyard: 30m away on the other side is another apartment building also with bay windows on every floor, and next to that is a high school. Yes, not only can my neighbours stare right into my room, but on weekdays, about ninety students can watch my every move from the comfort of their classroom. *shiver*.
Anyway, there's a hardware store around the corner from me, so I ventured down there into the testosterone paradise that is the German hardware store, Bauhaus.
It's no Bunnings - the standard of service at the two DIY worlds are poles apart, and Bunnings' range is unparalleled, but Bauhaus isn't far off.
I wander around for a few minutes and eventually find the curtain rods and rings, without any help from their staff - all of the high school students I have ever taught showed more enthusiasm towards learning the past imperfect tense than German service staff show towards, well, service!
After a short period of deliberation, I decide to just note down some prices to compare with the Swedish homeware haven. Any excuse for an excursion to Ikea.
As I return towards the entrance to the store to continue on my journey around Berlin, preparing to brace myself for the subzero temperatures outside, I see something which brings an immediate grin to my face.
An older gentleman, perhaps in his late 60s or early 70s, is also making his way out of the store with a trolley laden with paint tins, curtain rods and various other items which suggested a spot of redecoration was in his very near future.
That's not the entertaining part.
The entertaining part is that suddenly this gentleman in his late 60s or early 70s suddenly takes a run-up of a few steps, leans forward, puts his entire weight on the trolley and coasts blissfully along through Bauhaus for about ten metres. His momentum starts to wane, so he repeats his run-up again and coasts a few more metres, before using his feet to brake just half a metre before the concrete steps down to the carpark.
Between Trolley Man and Oma Chuck Taylors, it is clear that even Berlin's senior generation has not lost its ability to embrace their inner youth, even if they only let it show when they're reasonably sure no one is watching.
Reason #43623 why Australis hearts Berlin.
The hint of summer in the Hauptstadt
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.
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.
Australis' patented "Clean Up".
I never thought I would say this, but the therapeutic effect of cleaning one's living space to within an inch of its life should never be underestimated.
The satisfaction of being able to completely control just one aspect of one's life when most of the others bear an amazing resemblance to a horrifically spectacular car crash is very comforting.
For your reference, here are the last ten days in the world of Australis in a nutshell (and yes, I have Austin Powers in my head at the moment):
- a Friday night house party which resulted in me being on the receiving end of a friend's decision to communicate his frustration in an alcohol-fuelled violent display at 5am (not the first time this has happened). Don't worry: I'm fine - no injuries here.
- farewelling a good friend who moved to Turkey for six months on Sunday.
- a phone call home in which I learned that one of my mum's colleagues - also a very good friend of hers - had lost her fight with bone and liver cancer, and that my grandfather had yet again been hospitalised (fourth time for 2009).
- an appointment at the German Immigration Department bright and way too early on Monday to apply for my visa, only to be told to fill out three more forms and bring them in on Thursday, with a copy of my university degrees, at least three references, biometric passport photos, and 10 other documents proving that I do indeed exist and that I am who I say I am. Gotta love the Germans and their bureaucracy. There is most definitely going to be a blog post on German red tape when I get my visa.
- an intense heart-to-heart on Monday evening with the aforementioned friend from the house party about the two violent episodes and where our friendship goes from here.
- a throat infection which resulted in me not being able to speak at all for four days and forcing me to communicate via hand gestures, facial expressions, Skype and a notebook.
- another appointment at the German Immigration Department on Thursday morning in which I handed over half the Amazon rainforest in the form of neatly-filled-out visa and work permit application forms and received the response "it may take up to two months to be processed". Brilliant. Just great.
- as if all that wasn't enough, a browse of the online news revealed that Australia was being ravaged by all manner of natural disasters. What is with that at the moment? Fires, floods, oil slicks, cyclones, earthquakes, landslides as a result of the earthquakes - all that's left is a volcanic eruption... wait, no, even that has also been taken care of! We're only missing the tidal wave for the whole set! Note: Mother Nature, this is not a challenge!!! :)
Given all this happened within the space of a week, on top of a friend visiting from out of town, I was indeed in a state which might best be described as "interesting" by evening of Sunday the 15th of March.
I have various possible plans of action for dealing with such a frazzled state of mind as this.
A good long walk - preferably in a park or along the beach - is usually the first step. Unfortunately it was raining, and I was loath to prolong my throat infection for any longer than absolutely necessary.
Ok, so I scroll down the list to number two. Ooh - one of my favourites! Rock music therapy: create a "Rock Out!" playlist on WinAmp, crank up the volume and sing along to my favourite artists - Jimmy Eat World, Green Day, AC/DC, The Offspring, The Living End and OkGo! among others... Slight problem - no voice. It would also be really inconsiderate of me concering my flatmates, one of whom was still recovering from a serious hangover from the previous night and the other of whom is currently working on a major assessment piece for his university film studies program.
So we come to number three on the list - a sure fire certainty as far as therapy goes. It also involves some serious effort, which ensures I get a decent night's sleep, and there are added benefits in the form of an impeccably clean living space!
#3 on my list of strategies for dealing with Australis in a state which might best be described as "interesting" = The Clean Up. Doesn't sound all that special to you?
Read on.
"The Clean Up" is not just putting stuff back where it belongs though. That I can do any old time. No, "The Clean Up" is the housekeeping equivalent of "The Full Monty".
And this is how it goes.
Step 1 - the basics. Putting stuff back where it belongs, sorting out the junk which had accumulated on my desk/on shelves in front of the stuff that actually belongs there/on my sofa/hanging from the handlebars of my bike/on the area around my loft bed, etc, over an unknown number of days (I'm not quite bad enough to have to add "weeks" to that), and most definitely putting on a load of washing. The small stuff. Lots of small stuff.
Second - the fun part. Here come the big guns. Step #2 = The Vacuum Cleaner.
I love vacuuming. I love the sound. I love the current of warm, clean air. I love doing some actual work to make my space clean and liveable again. I love the smell of a room which has just been vacuumed.
After all that has been achieved, we move on to the final phase.
Step #3 = The Post-Clean Chillax.
The entire effect of the clean living space is then completed by having a long hot shower, lighting a few candles and some Nag Champa incense, opening a window and curling up on the sofabed with a cuppa and a good book, and revelling in the cleanliness and the amazing effects, both internal and external, of Australis' patented "Clean Up", possibly the best ever plan of action for rescuing a weekend (or in my case, a ten-day period) which for all intents and purposes, was quite honestly $!#@.
The satisfaction of being able to completely control just one aspect of one's life when most of the others bear an amazing resemblance to a horrifically spectacular car crash is very comforting.
For your reference, here are the last ten days in the world of Australis in a nutshell (and yes, I have Austin Powers in my head at the moment):
- a Friday night house party which resulted in me being on the receiving end of a friend's decision to communicate his frustration in an alcohol-fuelled violent display at 5am (not the first time this has happened). Don't worry: I'm fine - no injuries here.
- farewelling a good friend who moved to Turkey for six months on Sunday.
- a phone call home in which I learned that one of my mum's colleagues - also a very good friend of hers - had lost her fight with bone and liver cancer, and that my grandfather had yet again been hospitalised (fourth time for 2009).
- an appointment at the German Immigration Department bright and way too early on Monday to apply for my visa, only to be told to fill out three more forms and bring them in on Thursday, with a copy of my university degrees, at least three references, biometric passport photos, and 10 other documents proving that I do indeed exist and that I am who I say I am. Gotta love the Germans and their bureaucracy. There is most definitely going to be a blog post on German red tape when I get my visa.
- an intense heart-to-heart on Monday evening with the aforementioned friend from the house party about the two violent episodes and where our friendship goes from here.
- a throat infection which resulted in me not being able to speak at all for four days and forcing me to communicate via hand gestures, facial expressions, Skype and a notebook.
- another appointment at the German Immigration Department on Thursday morning in which I handed over half the Amazon rainforest in the form of neatly-filled-out visa and work permit application forms and received the response "it may take up to two months to be processed". Brilliant. Just great.
- as if all that wasn't enough, a browse of the online news revealed that Australia was being ravaged by all manner of natural disasters. What is with that at the moment? Fires, floods, oil slicks, cyclones, earthquakes, landslides as a result of the earthquakes - all that's left is a volcanic eruption... wait, no, even that has also been taken care of! We're only missing the tidal wave for the whole set! Note: Mother Nature, this is not a challenge!!! :)
Given all this happened within the space of a week, on top of a friend visiting from out of town, I was indeed in a state which might best be described as "interesting" by evening of Sunday the 15th of March.
I have various possible plans of action for dealing with such a frazzled state of mind as this.
A good long walk - preferably in a park or along the beach - is usually the first step. Unfortunately it was raining, and I was loath to prolong my throat infection for any longer than absolutely necessary.
Ok, so I scroll down the list to number two. Ooh - one of my favourites! Rock music therapy: create a "Rock Out!" playlist on WinAmp, crank up the volume and sing along to my favourite artists - Jimmy Eat World, Green Day, AC/DC, The Offspring, The Living End and OkGo! among others... Slight problem - no voice. It would also be really inconsiderate of me concering my flatmates, one of whom was still recovering from a serious hangover from the previous night and the other of whom is currently working on a major assessment piece for his university film studies program.
So we come to number three on the list - a sure fire certainty as far as therapy goes. It also involves some serious effort, which ensures I get a decent night's sleep, and there are added benefits in the form of an impeccably clean living space!
#3 on my list of strategies for dealing with Australis in a state which might best be described as "interesting" = The Clean Up. Doesn't sound all that special to you?
Read on.
"The Clean Up" is not just putting stuff back where it belongs though. That I can do any old time. No, "The Clean Up" is the housekeeping equivalent of "The Full Monty".
And this is how it goes.
Step 1 - the basics. Putting stuff back where it belongs, sorting out the junk which had accumulated on my desk/on shelves in front of the stuff that actually belongs there/on my sofa/hanging from the handlebars of my bike/on the area around my loft bed, etc, over an unknown number of days (I'm not quite bad enough to have to add "weeks" to that), and most definitely putting on a load of washing. The small stuff. Lots of small stuff.
Second - the fun part. Here come the big guns. Step #2 = The Vacuum Cleaner.
I love vacuuming. I love the sound. I love the current of warm, clean air. I love doing some actual work to make my space clean and liveable again. I love the smell of a room which has just been vacuumed.
After all that has been achieved, we move on to the final phase.
Step #3 = The Post-Clean Chillax.
The entire effect of the clean living space is then completed by having a long hot shower, lighting a few candles and some Nag Champa incense, opening a window and curling up on the sofabed with a cuppa and a good book, and revelling in the cleanliness and the amazing effects, both internal and external, of Australis' patented "Clean Up", possibly the best ever plan of action for rescuing a weekend (or in my case, a ten-day period) which for all intents and purposes, was quite honestly $!#@.
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.
The Button Bag
button bag. /bΛtn bæg/. noun.
1. The convergence of stylish accessory and wearable conversation piece in a spectacularly alternative, slightly bohemian and completely unique hessian shoulder bag with the ability to bridge international cultural & linguistic barriers and built-in travel bragging rights for the owner.
And I am the proud owner of the only one.
Let me explain. To tell the full story, I have to take you back in time to mid-August 2007. Location: Sarajevo, Bosnia.
I had been on the road for a few weeks, just me, my passport and my backpack, exploring Eastern Europe for the first time. The previous four years had consisted mostly of travel or work in various countries in Western Europe, and in September of 2007, I was due to continue that trend by taking up a position as a teaching assistant at a high school in southern Berlin. My curiousity surrounding the mysterious lands which had for so long remained in the shadow of the Iron Curtain had finally got the better of me, and I had decided that enough was enough: five weeks before I was due to start work, I dumped my winter stuff at a friend's place in Berlin and set off a five-week "Magical Mystery Tour" of the no-visa-required-for-Australians countries of south-eastern Europe.
Bosnia (ok, technically "and Herzegovina too") was the fifth country on my tour; prior to arriving in Bosnia, I had explored the grey concreteness of Slovakia, visited the Paprika Museums and thermal baths of Hungary, rowed on the most beautiful mountain lake ever in Slovenia, partied until dawn with fellow backpacking expats on the beaches of Croatia, and had slowly started to get used to the Eastern European mindset. From Bosnia, I would be heading further east toward Serbia, Bulgaria and the Black Sea, before finishing up the tour in Romania, then returning to "reality" in Berlin.
Bosnia had in just two days claimed the enviable title of being my favourite country on the tour, and Sarajevo without a doubt the crown of my favourite city of the five weeks so far. It achieved this status within two days, and by the time I left, Sarajevo's status had been elevated to the rank of "One of Australis' Top 5 Cities". (In case you're interested, the others are Melbourne a clear #1, Berlin the runner up at #2, Istanbul a close third, and Marrakech scraping in at fourth - Sarajevo is number 5, just above Fes.)
I would happily have spent an entire week in Bosnia, but unfortunately, the two days I had in Sarajevo were all my time budget would allow for, and after a day of walking around Sarajevo from one historical site to another, which were most inconveniently situated at least five kilometres apart, I was ready for a Pivo or two, and began to make my way back to the hostel for beer and börek, starting to contemplate exactly what form my Bosnian souvenir would take.
My policy for souvenirs so far on that tour had been a self-imposed minimalistic one: a postcard from each country, and if I really liked the place, a pair of earrings. Yes, yours truly has an earring problem.
Bosnia was however the exception to the souvenir policy. For two reasons.
Number 1, I loved the place. At that time, I hadn't yet been to Turkey or Morocco, and Sarajevo had a taste of the East - of Asia and of the Middle East - that I found mesmerising, intoxicating and most definitely addictive, and I resolved to return; in the meantime, a truly stupendous souvenir was in order.
And the second reason? In addition to my large backpack, I'd been carting a small day pack around for a few weeks. The experiences of the previous three weeks had instilled in me a whole new level of awareness of my personal security, and my small daypack just wasn't doing the job. I had noticed along the way that a satchel was without a doubt a better alternative in terms of protecting the contents of my bag from the increasing creativity and pickpocketing talents of the gypsy street urchins.
However considering I only had two more weeks on the road, a new bag wasn't really a priority, especially since I had already experienced the problem of finding one that I liked enough to part with my Bosnian Convertible Marks for, and also finding one that I hadn't already seen in every tourist-targeting, "typically-Eastern-European" bazzaar I had meandered through in the previous three weeks. In spite of this hurdle, the lack of versatility noted while wearing a backpack as a satchel had caused me to contemplate the notion of investing in a shoulder bag at some stage.
It was this dilemma which was occupying my mind while wandering around the marketplace, trying to find my way back to my hostel. As usual, I'd got lost in the narrow winding alleyways of the bazaar.
I got to the end of an alleyway, which looked like every other alleyway in the bazaar, turned a corner, and suddenly in front of me, in a narrow lane I had somehow never discovered before, was a small textile store. It was in the shadows of the neighbouring buildings, and the front window was dusty, but through the glass I could see a number of shoulder bags: two were embroidered with traditional Bosnian patterns, and one was a hessian shoulder bag covered in all manner of buttons. I had had my eye on something typically Bosnian, and initially considered one of the woven bags, but half an hour later, I left the store with a little less Bosnian currency and the button bag.
This is where the best part of the story starts. Up until then, as far as I was aware, this was a completely normal bag. Yes, it was covered in a myriad of buttons of different sizes, shapes and colours, but aside from that, it seemed to be your average slightly bohemian shoulder bag. Right?
Wrong.
The button bag is, as my previous definition stated, "the convergence of stylish accessory and wearable conversation piece in a spectacularly alternative, slightly bohemian and completely unique hessian shoulder bag with the ability to bridge international cultural & linguistic barriers and built-in travel bragging rights for the owner."
It's all of that, and so much more. As if that's not enough, you even can carry stuff in it!
Ok, I admit it: the "stylish" part is debatable, especially if you consider that style is subjective - the Button Bag certainly doesn't compete in the league of Dior, Dolce & Gabbana, or Gucci. I'm not sure I'd want it to.
But the rest of it is completely true. It is most definitely alternative and bohemian - it's not the kind of thing you'd see sold at David Jones or Myer at Chadstone, or in Macys in New York City: more the kind of thing you'd see in an alternative chic store along Brunswick St in Fitzroy or around the area of Friedrichshain or Kreuzberg in Berlin.
Unique? Yes. The elderly woman behind the counter who sold me this wonderful souvenir made it herself, using a selection of buttons she had taken from her own collection, built up over the previous twenty years in her time as a tailor and seamstress.
Travel bragging rights? Absolutely. But we'll get to that.
It's the "ability to bridge international cultural and linguistic barriers" that turned out to be the bag's greatest strength.
Who knew that a humble shoulder bag could be such a conversation starter? The strength of this conversation starting ability is all the more proven by the fact that it has not only started conversations between myself and random strangers in Australia, where everyone's your "mate" and everyone will quite happily have a good old natter with someone they met less than five minutes ago, have no idea of their name and most probably will never see again in their life, but also in Germany, a country whose folk are not exactly renowned for their friendliness toward strangers in public. Or indeed at all.
I have actually lost count of the number of interactions or conversations which have been instigated by a random stranger's interest in my button bag - whether it be in the bus, the train, at the market, at the Department of Immigration while applying for my visa and work permit, at the post office, or just about anywhere at all. There are also varying levels of interest. The lowest is a vague glance, usually followed by the infamous double take. This occasionally leads to level two, in which the person who has noticed the Button Bag attempts to attract the attention of the person accompanying them and direct it toward my bag. Level three involves the two of them starting a conversation about the bag, which is rather entertaining for me to watch, as they talk about my bag, which usually leads to level four, in which they make eye contact with me and smile politely, continuing their conversation while marvelling at my fabulous accessory. This usually leads to level five; the conversation.
The conversation typically involves two questions:
1. "Did you sew those on yourself?" The more bohemian the neighbourhood or the asker, the more tempted I am to say "Yes, I have collected buttons all my life and sewed them all on to an otherwise mundane hessian shoulder bag." In Berlin, that's an entirely feasible answer, but I remain proud of the fact that at last count, the replies are as follows: "Yes, I did it myself" - 0. "No, I bought it like that" - quite possibly in the hundreds by now.
My negative answer to the first question is typically followed by this question:
2. "Where did you get it?" Remember how I mentioned the "travel bragging rights"? This is where that comes into play. Whenever I am asked this, and I answer with a casual "I bought it in Sarajevo a few years ago", I am usually greeted with an expression of wonder at my extensive travel experiences, quickly followed by confusion as the asker considers the question "Why on earth would anyone travel to Bosnia - voluntarily?"
Usually by this stage, we've arrived at either my or the asker's train station, one of us is next in the queue for Turkish bread at the market or there is a rather annoyed postal worker behind the desk demanding that we pay attention to her, and we bid each other good day and go our separate ways.
But the attraction of the button bag has worked its magic on yet another person.
And I am the proud owner of the only one.
1. The convergence of stylish accessory and wearable conversation piece in a spectacularly alternative, slightly bohemian and completely unique hessian shoulder bag with the ability to bridge international cultural & linguistic barriers and built-in travel bragging rights for the owner.
And I am the proud owner of the only one.
Let me explain. To tell the full story, I have to take you back in time to mid-August 2007. Location: Sarajevo, Bosnia.
I had been on the road for a few weeks, just me, my passport and my backpack, exploring Eastern Europe for the first time. The previous four years had consisted mostly of travel or work in various countries in Western Europe, and in September of 2007, I was due to continue that trend by taking up a position as a teaching assistant at a high school in southern Berlin. My curiousity surrounding the mysterious lands which had for so long remained in the shadow of the Iron Curtain had finally got the better of me, and I had decided that enough was enough: five weeks before I was due to start work, I dumped my winter stuff at a friend's place in Berlin and set off a five-week "Magical Mystery Tour" of the no-visa-required-for-Australians countries of south-eastern Europe.
Bosnia (ok, technically "and Herzegovina too") was the fifth country on my tour; prior to arriving in Bosnia, I had explored the grey concreteness of Slovakia, visited the Paprika Museums and thermal baths of Hungary, rowed on the most beautiful mountain lake ever in Slovenia, partied until dawn with fellow backpacking expats on the beaches of Croatia, and had slowly started to get used to the Eastern European mindset. From Bosnia, I would be heading further east toward Serbia, Bulgaria and the Black Sea, before finishing up the tour in Romania, then returning to "reality" in Berlin.
Bosnia had in just two days claimed the enviable title of being my favourite country on the tour, and Sarajevo without a doubt the crown of my favourite city of the five weeks so far. It achieved this status within two days, and by the time I left, Sarajevo's status had been elevated to the rank of "One of Australis' Top 5 Cities". (In case you're interested, the others are Melbourne a clear #1, Berlin the runner up at #2, Istanbul a close third, and Marrakech scraping in at fourth - Sarajevo is number 5, just above Fes.)
I would happily have spent an entire week in Bosnia, but unfortunately, the two days I had in Sarajevo were all my time budget would allow for, and after a day of walking around Sarajevo from one historical site to another, which were most inconveniently situated at least five kilometres apart, I was ready for a Pivo or two, and began to make my way back to the hostel for beer and börek, starting to contemplate exactly what form my Bosnian souvenir would take.
My policy for souvenirs so far on that tour had been a self-imposed minimalistic one: a postcard from each country, and if I really liked the place, a pair of earrings. Yes, yours truly has an earring problem.
Bosnia was however the exception to the souvenir policy. For two reasons.
Number 1, I loved the place. At that time, I hadn't yet been to Turkey or Morocco, and Sarajevo had a taste of the East - of Asia and of the Middle East - that I found mesmerising, intoxicating and most definitely addictive, and I resolved to return; in the meantime, a truly stupendous souvenir was in order.
And the second reason? In addition to my large backpack, I'd been carting a small day pack around for a few weeks. The experiences of the previous three weeks had instilled in me a whole new level of awareness of my personal security, and my small daypack just wasn't doing the job. I had noticed along the way that a satchel was without a doubt a better alternative in terms of protecting the contents of my bag from the increasing creativity and pickpocketing talents of the gypsy street urchins.
However considering I only had two more weeks on the road, a new bag wasn't really a priority, especially since I had already experienced the problem of finding one that I liked enough to part with my Bosnian Convertible Marks for, and also finding one that I hadn't already seen in every tourist-targeting, "typically-Eastern-European" bazzaar I had meandered through in the previous three weeks. In spite of this hurdle, the lack of versatility noted while wearing a backpack as a satchel had caused me to contemplate the notion of investing in a shoulder bag at some stage.
It was this dilemma which was occupying my mind while wandering around the marketplace, trying to find my way back to my hostel. As usual, I'd got lost in the narrow winding alleyways of the bazaar.
I got to the end of an alleyway, which looked like every other alleyway in the bazaar, turned a corner, and suddenly in front of me, in a narrow lane I had somehow never discovered before, was a small textile store. It was in the shadows of the neighbouring buildings, and the front window was dusty, but through the glass I could see a number of shoulder bags: two were embroidered with traditional Bosnian patterns, and one was a hessian shoulder bag covered in all manner of buttons. I had had my eye on something typically Bosnian, and initially considered one of the woven bags, but half an hour later, I left the store with a little less Bosnian currency and the button bag.
This is where the best part of the story starts. Up until then, as far as I was aware, this was a completely normal bag. Yes, it was covered in a myriad of buttons of different sizes, shapes and colours, but aside from that, it seemed to be your average slightly bohemian shoulder bag. Right?
Wrong.
The button bag is, as my previous definition stated, "the convergence of stylish accessory and wearable conversation piece in a spectacularly alternative, slightly bohemian and completely unique hessian shoulder bag with the ability to bridge international cultural & linguistic barriers and built-in travel bragging rights for the owner."
It's all of that, and so much more. As if that's not enough, you even can carry stuff in it!
Ok, I admit it: the "stylish" part is debatable, especially if you consider that style is subjective - the Button Bag certainly doesn't compete in the league of Dior, Dolce & Gabbana, or Gucci. I'm not sure I'd want it to.
But the rest of it is completely true. It is most definitely alternative and bohemian - it's not the kind of thing you'd see sold at David Jones or Myer at Chadstone, or in Macys in New York City: more the kind of thing you'd see in an alternative chic store along Brunswick St in Fitzroy or around the area of Friedrichshain or Kreuzberg in Berlin.
Unique? Yes. The elderly woman behind the counter who sold me this wonderful souvenir made it herself, using a selection of buttons she had taken from her own collection, built up over the previous twenty years in her time as a tailor and seamstress.
Travel bragging rights? Absolutely. But we'll get to that.
It's the "ability to bridge international cultural and linguistic barriers" that turned out to be the bag's greatest strength.
Who knew that a humble shoulder bag could be such a conversation starter? The strength of this conversation starting ability is all the more proven by the fact that it has not only started conversations between myself and random strangers in Australia, where everyone's your "mate" and everyone will quite happily have a good old natter with someone they met less than five minutes ago, have no idea of their name and most probably will never see again in their life, but also in Germany, a country whose folk are not exactly renowned for their friendliness toward strangers in public. Or indeed at all.
I have actually lost count of the number of interactions or conversations which have been instigated by a random stranger's interest in my button bag - whether it be in the bus, the train, at the market, at the Department of Immigration while applying for my visa and work permit, at the post office, or just about anywhere at all. There are also varying levels of interest. The lowest is a vague glance, usually followed by the infamous double take. This occasionally leads to level two, in which the person who has noticed the Button Bag attempts to attract the attention of the person accompanying them and direct it toward my bag. Level three involves the two of them starting a conversation about the bag, which is rather entertaining for me to watch, as they talk about my bag, which usually leads to level four, in which they make eye contact with me and smile politely, continuing their conversation while marvelling at my fabulous accessory. This usually leads to level five; the conversation.
The conversation typically involves two questions:
1. "Did you sew those on yourself?" The more bohemian the neighbourhood or the asker, the more tempted I am to say "Yes, I have collected buttons all my life and sewed them all on to an otherwise mundane hessian shoulder bag." In Berlin, that's an entirely feasible answer, but I remain proud of the fact that at last count, the replies are as follows: "Yes, I did it myself" - 0. "No, I bought it like that" - quite possibly in the hundreds by now.
My negative answer to the first question is typically followed by this question:
2. "Where did you get it?" Remember how I mentioned the "travel bragging rights"? This is where that comes into play. Whenever I am asked this, and I answer with a casual "I bought it in Sarajevo a few years ago", I am usually greeted with an expression of wonder at my extensive travel experiences, quickly followed by confusion as the asker considers the question "Why on earth would anyone travel to Bosnia - voluntarily?"
Usually by this stage, we've arrived at either my or the asker's train station, one of us is next in the queue for Turkish bread at the market or there is a rather annoyed postal worker behind the desk demanding that we pay attention to her, and we bid each other good day and go our separate ways.
But the attraction of the button bag has worked its magic on yet another person.
And I am the proud owner of the only one.
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