German mega-chain Schlecker went bankrupt and closed all its stores last summer. So someone stuck a sausage over the “Sch” at my local store and was left with the word “lecker,” meaning delicious. Authorities have since removed the sausage.
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.
Last week I told you about a spindly old man and his giant dog. Today’s story is not so empowering. It’s about an old man, without a dog.
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.
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.
Image Source: http://www.freakingnews.com
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.
Then the doors closed and they were gone.
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.
My picnic spot. Image source: http://www.german-architecture-info.net
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.
Living on a Shoestring
This is a notice I saw plastered all around Berlin’s central Mitte district.
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.
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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.
Penneys has come to Berlin. It’s enormous. And like in Britain, it’s called Primark. It takes up most of the Schloss-Straßen shopping centre. Our ambassador opened it officially back in July.
I had to visit.
As soon as I got off the train, I spotted two übercool teenage boys swinging Primark shopping bags. Very pleasing.
It was full to the brim inside. Like a game of bumper cars. It may have opened over a month ago, but Berliners are still coming to terms with this Irish import.
Primark takes up most of the shopping centre! I probably looked a little strange taking this photo.
One girl I saw had stopped dead in front of a €2 pair of wine-coloured tights. She picked them up and stroked them. Then she bent her face over them in case she had missed a trick. After one final caress, she flung them into her enormous cloth basket.
You can’t blame her. Such a thing is unheard of in Berlin. While everything else may be cheaper (and I mean everything: rent, food, toiletries, pets ..), clothes are not. Especially not tights. Tights are a luxury afforded to those lucky enough to have a disposable income of more than seven euro.
Onesies are new too. They may be a step too far for Berliners though. The section with the zebra-print one-piece suits with lace-up paws was the only one empty today. But as the weather cools down, perhaps braver Berliners will take the plunge.
Nobody stopped me from taking a picture of the onesies..
Primark Berlin is full of languages. I couldn’t count them all as there were some I couldn’t distinguish with certainty. Staff wear the same uniform as in Dublin and the Muslim women wear black headscarves.
It was surreal to hear staff announcements like “Ute Müller zur Kasse bitte” blasting through the store.
I couldn’t justify my expedition without visiting the fitting rooms. I joined an almighty queue. Unlike in Dublin, the lighting on the way into the changing area is dim. Almost Hollister-esque, which made me cringe. It snaked around and around and made me feel like I was about to visit a haunted house.
“Manno,” said a girl in front. “This is going to take forever.”
“Only eight items per person,” cried the shop assistant. “It’s quicker that way.”
I had grabbed a yellow mini skirt and a woollen wrap to try on.
In huge letters above the changing room entrance it says. “Try it, Like it, Buy it!” Germans love English slogans.
The light inside the changing rooms was just as unflattering as in Dublin. It just proves the success of the business model. People buy this stuff despite recognising blotches and follicle sprouts ordinarily concealed by more flattering light.
Neither skirt worked. Might have been the lighting but more likely the fact that I am very poor. I did however make a purchase. I’ve started running you see. Not far, or fast or anything, but you do end up breaking into a little sweat. So I picked up a turquoise tank top that promised to “stretch” and headed to the checkout. No amount of semesters studying economic psychology could take away the temptation to impulse buy on the way to the till. I resisted faux porcelain cupcake-shaped containers, facial wipes and novelty socks. But when I saw antibacterial handwash I could stand it no longer. I grabbed a bottle. My total purchase came to €6.
Outside I walked down Schlossstrasse and wandered into Vero Moda. Without the soft rock in the background, you could have heard a pin drop. Empty as sin. A blonde sales assistant was unfolding folded sweaters. “Hello,” she said when she saw me. There was a hint of hope in her voice. I took a look around. The clothes were nice, and I looked more tolerable in the mirrors. But some things cost more than €15. And I’m not sure if they got the memo, but there’s a recession on. And if there’s one thing we Irish know a lot about…
At 5 o’clock this morning, I found myself in a queue to get through security at Dublin airport. It was moving sluggishly, like a lazy snake. Every time it took a bend, I caught sight of a young man a few meters in front. He was nineteen or twenty and slightly lanky. He had a gentle face and blonde hair, which flopped a little to the side. He was crying.
At every bend his face grew sadder and when I saw him take out a crumpled tissue from the pocket of his jeans, I discovered tears in my eyes too. I wanted to reach over the barrier, touch his wrist and say “Skype is great, you know” but I couldn’t because the night before, when LSB had left me at my garden gate, I ran away up the stairs and to my toilet so nobody would see me crying.
I lost him after he went through security but he had a face and expression which personified every single Irish short story about grief and emigration I have read.
There were quite a few empty seats on my flight. I was on the aisle, with a space between me and a neat-looking man at the window programming things on his ipad. When the cabin lights were dimmed for take-off, I tried to turn my overhead reading light on but it was defective. The man stretched across and turned on the middle reading light for me. I thanked him and he smiled.
I’ve only been here a few hours but moving from the east of Berlin to the west is like ageing thirty-five years in a day. Gone are the punk bars and graffiti. Gone are the anarchist posters stuck to trees. It’s quieter, more leafy.
I was thinking this anyway, on my way from the S Bahn stop, on the lookout for a snack. I found a kebab joint and ordered a falafel sandwich. I sat down on a steel table outside, with my luggage wrapped around my feet.
The two men at the next table stared at me.
“Where were you on holiday?” the older one with a moustache asked.
I explained that I hadn’t been on holiday but was coming for work.
“There’s no work here,” he said.
“What are you drinking?”
“Nothing, thanks.”
“Cola?”
“No thanks.”
He ordered me Turkish butter milk. It came in a yoghurt container and was full of salt and bubbles.
Image source: sweettoothcraving.blogspot.com
“Ever had this?”
“No.”
“Where are you from?”
“Ireland.”
“How much is a kebab in Ireland?”
“More expensive.”
“How much?”
“€4.50.”
“Is it.”
“Yes.”
“We’re not German either. I’m Turkish and he’s Greek. We’ve been here thirty years. It’s not easy coming here new.”
They told me I would need a work visa if I didn’t want to work “Schwarz.” (The German language rather offensively refers to “schwarz” or “black” as the colour of transgression.)
I told them Ireland was in the EU.
“How much rent you paying?”
I told them.
“I could get you a flat to yourself for less.”
I gratefully declined.
“You living around here? That street there?”
I was arrested by his guess and didn’t deny it.
When he guessed the number I became frightened.
I told him I didn’t know yet.
“That street’s full of alcoholics. You could have a place to yourself for less. Who you staying with?”
I texted LSB and asked him to call me.
We spoke in Irish. I waited and waited. The Turkish man eventually got bored and left. The Greek stayed behind. I paid €2.50 for my falafel sandwich. The Turkish butter milk was on the house.
Kate Ferguson 