As if the “Present Box” wasn’t enough to make me smile on my way to do the grocery shopping, this mobile telephone box turned Bibliothek has just popped up a few yards away. You take a book, and if you have one spare, you leave one back. I’ve picked up a German copy of Sue Townsend’s Downing Street No. 10. I sent an over-zealous email of gratitude to the group that organises these things. Unfortunately it came back to me instantly with a notice that delivery had failed permanently. So if you’re reading, good people at Dorf Dienst, I love your telephone box-library.
I’m back: reanimated, restored, relieved! I’m still showering in the dark and when I came home from work in the early hours of this morning, I had to take care not to stumble over the enormous extension cable that snakes its way from a socket in the hallway all the way to the fridge. But I can deal with fumbling for shampoo bottles and peeing by torchlight if I have the means to share the experience with the world.
I was walking home from work the other evening. It was dark and I was on a quiet, dimly lit road. In the distance I could make out the shadow of a figure on the ground. Their arms were jerking and outstretched as if having a seizure.
As I got closer, I found an old man with his chin slumped to his chest, trying to hoist himself up without success. I stopped, as did the man who had been walking a few paces in front of me.
I came closer. “Is everything okay?” I asked redundantly.
The old man’s eyes slowly turned to me. They were pale blue and very round. It took him some time to register the question and when he did his expression became pained and he said slowly “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. What have I done now?”
I was gentle. “It happens to all of us.”
“Oh shit, oh shit. I always mess everything up. My whole life is a mess.”
I tried to find out whether he was hurt.
He couldn’t answer my question and kept saying “I’ve messed it all up. My whole life is a misery.”
“Do you live near here?” I asked him.
“Yes.”
“Do you live in this house?” I said, pointing to number 23, which he was leaned against.
Berlin can be the loneliest of places too. I took this picture after spending St Patrick’s Day alone last year.
“Yeah.” His gaze wandered slowly around.
“Do you have a key?”
Silence.
He swayed a little.
Suddenly, with a bolt of energy that came from nowhere the old man sprung to his feet. He stumbled wildly and before I could get to him, fell forward with full force. I could hear a crack as his head hit the pavement.
Miraculously, the fall seemed not to affect him. My heart was beating very fast. I brought him over to sit on the doorstep. The old man smelt of vodka.
I called an ambulance.
The other man who’d stopped was about eighteen or nineteen. He was hovering uncomfortably and said very little. He might not have know it, but I was immensely grateful for his presence.
The old man made more wild attempts to get to his feet and fell again. While we were waiting for the ambulance to come, a young couple stopped to see if they could help. The girl was very pretty and very kind. She put her arm around the old man. Her boyfriend was more detached and said simply and without judgement, “Alcohol’s not the answer to your problems, is it?”
“You’re right,” said the old man. “You’re right.”
He sighed. “I’ve messed up my relationships. I’ve messed up my life.”
His gaze flitted intermittently to each of our faces.
“And then this happens,” he said. “And you meet people.”
The ambulance came promptly and a big man in a security vest said cheerfully,
“Now, what’s the problem here?”
It was a question which would take the sad old man years to answer.
The ambulance man hoisted him up.
The old man was so unsteady on his feet that it looked as if they were dancing all the way to the ambulance.
I’ve been sitting in a cosy café, on a brown leather sofa, ordering coffee derivatives all day. I can’t describe how grateful I am for the free Wifi they provide. A fuse blew in my flat last night and I’ve been forced to shower in the dark and to plug the kettle into one of the remaining functioning sockets in my bedroom. When the water boils, it looks like my carpet is breathing. At least I haven’t been deprived of my last remaining comfort: a cup of tea in my Chinese mug which comes with a lid and in-built filter.
Today is a public holiday in Germany. Berliners are supposed to be celebrating national unity but I suspect they are all sleeping. The streets are eerily empty. It took me ages to find a coffee shop open. Even Starbucks has closed its doors. My plight seems all then more acute today of all days, given that a personal wall has been erected between me and the outside world.
I can do without lolcats and Youtube and even breaking news. But I find it deeply distressing to be without contact to family and friends. Katekatharina.com lives and breathes off a web of readers Googling things like “Armpit hair.” I’m yet to encounter a person who stumbles across me in real life with the same enquiry. When you begin blogging, you write to a void, but over time that develops into a small and precious collection of loyal readers who are kind enough to read your twitterings as soon as they’re posted.
I have now sat through an entire shift here. The waitress who served me my iced latté and more recently my cappuccino, has been replaced by a blonde lady with an impressive pony tail and crinkly scarf. I am relieved because the new staff do not know for how long I’ve been here (though I suspect the waitress from before may have warned them of my infinite presence). They are tactful and haven’t asked me once to re-order. I’m going to show my gratitude by ordering a third beverage shortly.
Katekatharina in a similarly stressful situation some months ago (that time I couldn’t open a tin of tomatoes bit the sense of helpless incapacity was similar)
Anyway, on a happier note, I was delighted to find out that I’ve been chosen as a finalist in the Blog Awards Ireland. I’m terribly sorry not to be able to attend the ceremony. I wonder if the organisers would consider streaming it online.. They’d have one avid viewer in west Berlin for sure. Check out the wonderful bloggers in my category here: The Style Account, Wise Words, Nialler9 and Iblogfashion.
When I next get online, I will tell you about the old man for whom I called an ambulance last night. I might even tell you a little about my new job. In the meantime, do send me a text. It’s my last remaining way to instantly communicate.
Yesterday an old and spindly man carrying a canvas rucksack got on the S42 train. By his side, ranging far beyond his hip, was the largest dog I have ever seen. The animal’s expansive snout was curved into an unmissable expression of contentment and its panting caused a pleasant breeze to waft in my direction. The pair captured the attention of the entire carriage. One lady gasped and another simply pointed and shook her head.
The considerate hound immediately dove under a row of seats and stretched out its gargantuan mass. The old man plonked himself down nearby. I chose the seat next to him. I had to keep my legs dangled in the air because a portion of the canine was jutting out far beyond the area beneath the seat. The old man took out a newspaper and I opened my book.Shortly after I felt him abandon the paper and read over my shoulder. I hoped my leisurely reading pace suited his. The book was The Diving Bell and The Butterfly. Its author, Jean-Dominique Bauby, a French journalist, became paralysed after a stroke and could only communicate by blinking. He died at the age of forty-four.
The man and his enormous dog stayed on the train for five stops. As he was getting ready to disembark, one of the ladies, who had been staring unashamedly the whole time, blurted out, “How much does he weigh?”
“Sixty seven kilos,” the old man replied in a flash and added, “He’s not a Saint Bernard either; he just looks like one.”
The lady nodded earnestly. “And how old is he?”
“Seven.”
The doors slid open and the old man stepped forward. Then he hesitated and turned around again.
He looked the lady in the eye.
“He’s the best thing ever to happen to me,” he said.
This wardrobe-like structure lives on a traffic island in west Berlin. It’s called a “Schenk”(present) Box”. It’s a beautiful idea. Anybody who either has something they don’t need, or is feeling generous, can come and leave a present in the box for a stranger to pick up at a later date. I’ve found all sorts of things in there: pots and pans, baby clothes, board games, a kettle, clothes and books. I picked up English copies of Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four and Alice Walker’s The Colour Purple as well as The Hobbit in German. The rules are very simple: keep the box neat and tidy, don’t use it as a dumpster, don’t re-sell your gifts. I’m already wondering what I’m going to leave there. Why not make a suggestion on my Facebook page here?
I’ve got what many of you might envy: a tonne of free time in Berlin.
Just imagine: I’m at leisure in one of the most exciting cities in the world. I’ve no one to answer to, no pressing business to attend to and no miscreant alarm clock ripping me from my slumbers.
Kate Katharina: a lady of leisure? image source: store.craftsbyveronica.com
Bliss?
Not so much. The exhilaration I felt the first time I arrived in the city has dissipated. I know my way around and though I’m still impressed by the public transport, travelling on the underground no longer gives me butterflies.
My days are clumsily punctuated by grocery shopping, small errands and the quest for personal improvement.
When I go grocery shopping, I invest a lot of energy into not falling for any of the tricks I learnt about in the Psychology of Economics class I took at college. I evaluate the price of items per kilogram, I immediately avoid all products at eye level and cast my gaze downwards to where the discounted goods tend to be displayed. After all, if there’s one thing I remember from that course, it’s the mantra, “Eye level is buy level.”
Shortly before my life began to be defined by trips to my local discounters, I organised my days around navigating German bureaucracy. It was so horrifying that I considered dedicating a series of posts to it but I’ve since concluded that writing about it might trigger symptoms of post-traumatic stress. In summary, German bureaucracy is a delightful contrivance, designed to test the upper limits of patience, sanity and cognition. Now that I am officially registered extant, have been issued with a tax number and opened a bank account, I feel equipped to take on any challenge.
If only one would present itself.
Since I am unemployed (happily only temporarily), and know very few people here, I am trying desperately to channel my social deficit into intellectual pursuit.
I’ve re-ignited my passion for Arabic. I sit at my desk with a little notebook and take down the Arabic word of the day on Youtube and practise making guttural sounds when I am sure my flatmates aren’t within hearing distance. I’m getting better.
I’ve read a few books.
I’ve got out at underground stops I select on a whim to explore new parts of town.
I’ve even started running and enrolled in a yoga class. And the other day, I went on a picnic alone. I thought it would be idyllic.
My destination was a historical palace with beautiful gardens that border a colossal park. On the day of my picnic it was very warm. I packed my Pocahontas towel along with a lunch box full of grapes and a tofu sandwich.
I found a beautiful spot beside a little lake. I rolled up my hippy pants, took out my food and began to read my book. Beautiful solitude, I was thinking to myself. How lucky I am to be wedged between a palace and a lake, munching on a soggy but delicious tofu sandwich.
Suddenly I sensed a presence behind me. “Good Afternoon” said a voice.
I turned around to find a self-important middle-aged man on a bicycle pointing at me. “Sie befinden sich jetzt im Barock Garten, junge Dame!” Since I find it amusing to translate German literally and will be fired if I do it when working in TV, I’ll do so now. What the man said was “You are now situated in the Baroque garden, young Madam.”
I lost a piece of tofu in my fright. He continued. “You are not permitted to lounge in such an area.”
Since I am by nature irrationally apologetic, I said I was terribly sorry. I gathered up my stuff and made my way through the park. He nodded at me grimly and cycled away.
I set up camp on a little patch of grass beside a bench and close to the river Spree. I was there for about half and hour and I was ripping through my book. The sun was making me sleepy.
Tyres ground to a halt behind me. “Good Afternoon, young Madam.” Dread shot through me. I turned around. We recognised each other instantly. “You again!”
I nodded.
“You find yourself at this time in the Louisen Garten, officially attached to the palace of Charlottenburg. This is a restricted area, unsuited to lounging. You must move along.”
“Where to?” I asked. This time I was not as apologetic.
“Beyond that far bridge, you will find an area dedicated to the general public.”
I packed up my things and made my way to the bridge.
On the way I spotted several other people enjoying the sun. The park warden called over to me from his bicycle. “Don’t get any ideas from these loungers, young Madam. They are also in prohibited areas and will be moving along shortly.”
He cycled up to a mother feeding her baby. “Young mother, you find yourself in the Luisen Garten!”
She looked bewildered. As did the other people he approached. I was close enough to see him point at me and call out, “Follow that young lady, who will lead you to an acceptable lounging area.”
Suddenly I was leading a pack of transgressors. When I had crossed the bridge, I found the “lounging area.” The grass rose up to my knees. It was an unpromising destination for the pilgrims I was guiding but it was sanctioned by the park warden. I sighed and laid down my Pocahontas towel for a third time.
And then I thought that maybe what I’m learning here has nothing to do with Arabic, or fitness or journalism. With every empty day that passes, I’m being schooled in the art of being alone.
“And I stiiiiill haven’t found what I’m looking for,” Bono confessed in 1987, the year I was born. Sometimes I get the impression that some people who land here can relate. Here are some of my favourite Search Engine referrals to date.
Image Source: pulkit.me
“Inside a Septic Tank:”
I’d rather not be, if I could at all help it.
“How to find a leprechaun:”
I used to find it helpful to hover around the Molly Malone statue but if you are outside of Ireland, I suggest waiting for the next rainbow. Bring a magnifying glass as leprechauns tend to be very small.
“Legion of Mary Logo”:
I wish I had designed it.
“Entertain my “savant girlfriend:”
Look here, I’ve got enough to deal with with LSB and his preternatural processing speed. Read up on absolutely anything she’s not interested in and impart your wisdom lazily. That way you’ll seem generally well-informed rather than narrow and specialist.
“Kate Ferguson Teacher of the Year:”
Katekatharina… Teacher of the Year?
Aw, you guys. You shouldn’t have. Is there a cash prize?
“Photocopier Graveyard:”
Not the first place I’d look for one but sounds like a promising premise for a science fiction novel.
“Nasal Paper Tissues:”
An underrated modern commodity.
“Is a pen a metaphorical penis?”
No, absolutely, definitely not.
“Messiah Dundrum Shopping Centre:”
He’s as likely to be there as anywhere else. Check Harvey Nicks.
“Something happened in Kurdistan:”
Chances are, yes.
“All piercings possible:”
Why limit yourself?
“Brain with muscles:”
More useful than one without but don’t get too macho about it.
“Rainbow Bedsheets:”
Sound amazing.
“Alone in Berlin:”
Don’t rub it in.
“Psychofelinonolgy:”
I invented this discipline title. Here’s the proof.
“Fade Street:”
I used to be an authority but around the time Vogue abandoned us for like, Brian McFadan and like, Australia I said “feck it” and moved to Berlin.
“Quarter Life Crisis:”
I’m an expert.
“Man walking three Saint Bernards:”
An excellent, specific search. You didn’t deserve to land here. I’m sorry.
“Perfect Fingernails:”
I wouldn’t have the faintest notion.
“Hairy German Women”:
A niche interest indeed.
“Daniel O’Donnell Museum:”
Planned for my next pilgrimage.
“xxx lsb:”
A cyber rival? Should I be worried?
“Clear toilet seat:”
I like the ones where it looks like fish are swimming around the rim.
Mauerpark is sparkling in brilliant sunshine. There are hundreds, maybe thousands here.
“Alright!?” an Irish voice shouts to the crowd. He’s standing beside a beatbox-turned-bicycle and a colourful umbrella. There’s a Macbook by his feet. His audience is positioned about him like in an amphitheatre.
“First up we have … Decker!”
A man with tufty grey sideburns, a suit jacket and a slight hunch shuffles to the centre. He lays his cloth bag on the ground and takes the microphone.
First performance of the afternoon
The track starts. Decker begins to croon a German love song.
The tempo increases, he closes his eyes and gets to the chorus. The crowd explodes.
A few more verses and it’s all over. Decker takes several modest, tiny bows before worming his way through the crowd and back out into the park.
Next up is a thin teenage boy wearing a baseball cap. He sings “Every Breath You Take.” Mid-way through he stops and squints at the Macbook on the ground. He’s lost his place. The crowd fills in by clapping and soon he’s back to promising that he’ll be watching us; every breath we take, every step we take.
Katie comes next. She’s a bold and bubbly American comedian. She can’t sing but she’s here to promote her stand-up show. She shakes her body, throws her head back, grabs a passionate hold of an unsuspecting man in the front row and finishes the performance by firing fliers for her next show at the crowd.
We hear Brad from Arizona, who looks like a cowboy and sounds like Elvis Presley.
Then comes Miss Britney. She’s wearing a golden bikini top and tiny hotpants.
Miss Britney
“Woah” says the Irish MC. “Do you always wear those clothes?”
She smiles like Britney and says “at least if my singing doesn’t impress, my clothes will!”
She wins the crowd over with a rendition of “Paparazzi.”
Then comes Ellie, a German girl who sings acapella. She’s followed by man in his fifties who brought his own lyrics, which he he unfolds like a scroll as he gets through the verses.
Finally there’s Seán, from Portland, Oregon. He’s scruffy and handsome with big tattooed arms. The MC is fixing something on the computer and kills time by asking Seán if he’s got a girlfriend or a “special person.” He doesn’t. “And why did you come from squeaky clean Portland to dirty, grubby, tattooy Berlin?”
“I got a job,” says Seán.
The crowd roars with approval.
“A proper job?”
“Yep.”
Even better. The Irish MC warns Seán that he is becoming irresistible to the ladies.
Katie the stand-up comedian needs no more prompting. She rushes to the stage, launches herself at Seán and falls down to one knee.
When things have turned sober again, Seán from Portland takes the microphone and performs a stunning version of “House of the Rising Sun.”
This happens every Sunday in Mauerpark in Berlin. The event was set up in 2009 by Irishman Joe Hatchiban, who uses portable, battery-powered boxes to let everyone and anyone unleash their inner star. You can find out more about karaoke in Mauerpark here. It’s yet another reason to love the city.
I’d like to thank a lady called Clare, whom I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting but who sent me a very kind email after my more melancholy post yesterday. She advised me to give this event a go and I’m so glad I did. As you all know, I don’t write for money (though if any philanthropist is reading..) and sometimes I wonder if it’s worth all the work. But when I hear from a kind stranger like Clare, I know it’s worth every minute.
My underwear is spinning furiously in the washing machine next door. The bedroom walls are shaking. Somewhere close a clock I cannot see is ticking. I’m propped up in my double bed in west Berlin, thinking of LSB.
He’s hundreds of miles away. I imagine him waking up in his hostel in Edinburgh and stepping gingerly by sleeping bodies as he makes his way to the bathroom.
We Skyped last night. He was in the hostel lounge, which was lit up like a disco hall in flashing shades of red and green and purple. The way he was sitting made it look like there were daffodils sprouting out of his shoulders but when he moved I could see they were artificial flowers wedged into a plastic vase.
He’d been looking at flats all day and was fatigued. I’d spent the day copying Arabic phrases into a notebook and trying to commit the 50 states of America to memory.
We were both alone in exciting cities and we were both demoralised.
“This going away thing is not that easy,” said LSB.
“I know!”
“It’s not all glamour, is it Katzi?”
We sighed.
LSB and I are good at being alone. We don’t fall into a restless panic when idle and we don’t rush for company the moment we’re abandoned.
So yes, we have inner resources. But sometimes they too can be tested.
LSB in Sligo
For those that don’t know, I moved back to Berlin to work as a writer and translator for television. The job doesn’t start until October, and it will only be on a freelance basis then. For reasons that could fill a book, I arrived back here early. I moved into my flat two weeks ago, exhausted after an encounter with a Turkish man, who bought me buttermilk and offered me a flat.
At first I busied myself with practical things. I registered with the police, opened a bank account and got a tax number. Not thrilling achievements, but ones you can tick off a list.
I’ve been in work a bit for training but apart from that my days have been long voids punctuated by little plans, like going to Penneys or doing grocery shopping. I’m trying to better myself by learning things but I’m distracted by financial worries and as always, about what I’m doing with my life.
LSB, happily or unhappily, is in the same boat. Saturday stretches ahead of us. These cities are full of possibilities. We need only step outside or on a train, but something inside of us, human and inert, guides us to inaction.
Some time ago the washing machine let out a shrill cry. My underwear is clean. A small conquest.
Kate Ferguson 