Too busy to think of a title

The night before last I was cuddling up to a rather dopey rottweiler from somewhere in Russia. 

Last night I was cuddling up with one of my favourite singers, Duke Special, from Northern Ireland. I say ‘cuddling’ but actually all I got was his autograph. So lucky me! That’s the benefit of small gigs, you don’t have to elbow your way up to the band to say ‘hi’. Anyway, my signed ticket is now displayed in prime position next to the stereo, an Olympus Trip camera and stuffed toy Warthog. 

 

Bell X1 were also playing as the main act last night, but the music hurt my ears so much that I left early. And I really only went to see Duke Special sing so I was happy to leave and find a midnight crepe to eat on the way home. That was miles better than the last time Jackson and I saw Duke Special play and we had to rush out at the very last minute to get the train home, with no chance of getting any decent snacks. Berlin – all night public transport, snacks galore! England – crappy public transport, and curling cornish pasties if you’re lucky.

Oh the tragedy!

I’ve committed one of modern life’s most troublesome sins:

Crying into my microwaveable lasagna whilst watching Jamie Pugh sing on ‘Britain’s Got Talent’.

The poor guy, never had the courage to stand up and sing in front of anyone before, and then who’d believe what came out! A man singing opera with a Welsh accent really can’t be beat can it?

I think watching ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ is one of the few things I miss about home (that and HMV, and yes, Topshop), see last year’s posts tagged ‘cultural petite mal’ for more. I love the triumphs and tribulations but I equally revel in the mishaps and slip-ups. I indulge in a bit of schadenfreude when it all goes wrong. The only part I find awkward is when parents push on their little darlings, and little darling does not have one ounce of talent. Having said that, any saccharine child act doesn’t really agree with my sensitivities anyway. But that’s just my taste.

So, weeping tears into a mush of bechemel and vegetables, what next? Twirling round the living room clutching a martini glass listening to Neil Young’s “Hurricane”? Reading the end of “Mice and Men”? Putting “Sophie’s Choice” on to play whilst…..alone???

It’s just not my world

We’re off to a contemporary art exhibition soon.

 

Jackson’s going as the potato famine and I’m dressing as a full-stop.

Faces of Berlin

Three faces of Berlin…

Following up on my posts about bin hokers and plate hokers, my latest encounter has been with a remarkably verbose drunken lady. Sitting down on a park bench to eat our ice-creams (oh, I love you Berlin, and all your ice cream shops), Jackson and I were approached by a lady dressed in pastel colours and dream catcher earrings. She immediately picked up that we weren’t German and switched to fluent English, this despite the smell of Aldi’s cheapest wine and the type of spirits sold in those miniature bottles, flowing off her breath. Coupled with the collection of bags that she’d dumped on a bench nearby, a gentrified conversation didn’t appear too promising, but – never judge a book by it’s cover. Our newest acquaintance had more than enough sharp observations of the differences in mentality across Germany. The Berlinerish ‘Landkreig’ (no one ever, ever gives way on pavements or opens the door if you are coming through), the peering through curtains and judgement of neighbours, compared to the more open and easy-going manner of Hanseatic area. Of course, living in Berlin one soon appreciates that ‘God knows everything, but the neighbours know more‘.

UPDATE: Jackson just reminded me of the strange joke the lady made about Jackson speaking ‘Egg speech’. Somehow she moved from Ireland-isch, to Eier-landisch, to Egg speech. It does actually make sense: eier means ‘eggs’ in German; but our new linguist found the joke immensly funny for far longer than is usual. 

I’m never sure if people I meet on the streets, who clearly display signs of alcoholism, madness (who are we to judge?), and general dirtiness, spin out embellished stories, or do tell the truth. The lady in the park had, accordingly, sailed around the world many times, and was an accomplished yachtswoman. I’m leaning on the side of believing her, and why not?

Later that day I also had an impromptu conversation with an old Vietnamese man. I was buying Summer Rolls on the spur of the moment on my way home, and the restaurateur started talking to me. I told him I’d visited Vietnam a few years ago, which is where my love of Summer Rolls started. He, in turn, told me his story (which was certainly more interesting than my love of Asian food) of arriving in West Germany decades ago, as a guest student. Apparently after the Berlin wall was erected, and then when the war in Vietnam ended, Gastarbeiters and students from the north of Vietnam were invited to Eastern Germany (the communist connection), and many students were invited from the south of Vietnam into Western Germany. The restaurateur had been an electrical engineer for many years, before starting a restaurant with his wife. I think being a foreigner in Berlin, and recognisably so (I lack the required accent), has made me somehow more susceptible to being approached by many characters wanting to tell their own story. In the true sense of narrative history, everyone has a story to tell, but often no one takes the time to hear. My new friend also gave me some fortune cookie so I’d “know what’s going to happen later”. I opened mine up at home the paper strip read “You will have success on Thursday“. But it was Thursday! So have I already had my success for the day, was it to come in the remaining 3 hours, or come next Thursday? Or on another Thursday, ten years away? Tell me for certain!

Or maybe my success is linked to this:

Another reason why I love Berlin is the chance to meet Daniel Brühl, the face of Berlin, on the U-bahn. I’m 99% certain it was him, and 1% certain it was a spitting-image copy, but as I went down the steps at Potsdamer Platz, he was coming up. It was actually a second or so afterwards that I realized that I might have unknowingly experienced a star-sighting. Oh, missed opportunity! Actually, our eyes did meet….sadly, nothing else did.

Daniel, if you were at Potsdamer Platz at about 7.45pm, then, you know – call me!

Mein Gott

I wish I lived in Witzleben, Berlin. Then I could in all honestly say “life’s a joke”, whilst shaking my head in despair as the fine particles of our crumbling civilization scatter around us. Schadenfreude even invades the place names round here. The locals can quite happily say ‘we told you so’, perhaps whilst mixing in a Cambridge Footlights’ song (circa 1995/6/7?) that chimes out ’shit happens, and life’s a bitch and then you die’.

 

For the record, personally I am fine, but once in a while I like to comment on the state of affairs that I witness around me.

Scary wet pants

I’ve just watched a video clip on the BBC news website about the world’s steepest rollercoaster drop, located in Thorpe Park, England. Apparently you travel 100 feet vertically upwards, facing the sky and then drop 100 degrees down again. 4.G (??) forces you into your seat. Then you travel a very twisted track until you disembark to walk again on your spaghetti legs.

 

A journalist from the BBC took the ride, named ‘Saw’ (from the films?) but what I noticed was the guy sitting in the end seat is chewing gum as they take off . Hello??  Young man, that gum is going to be thrust back into your throat at 4.7 times the force of gravity. You’re getting your kicks from adrenaline, do you want to add sticky windpipe to the thrills?

 

I was disappointed that I heard only about 5 screams throughout the whole video; where are the manic, high pitched screams of terror and fear? Where is the pant wetting? Were the riders all meditating throughout (don’t laugh, I do this on rollercoaster rides) ? Or perhaps praying? Or does gravity constrict the vocal cords too much to be able to scream? 

Thankfully they interviewed the masticating guy at the end, so the viewers can see that he didn’t afer all get choked by a stick of Wrigley’s or strawberry Trident lodged somewhere behind his tonsils. 

But if I watch rollercoaster footage I want screams, shrieks, wet pants, and vomit in hair.

Dirty hands, 80 cents and David Bowie

Like bad sex all I ever get from visiting DIY shops are dirty hands and a headache – DIY shops, and anywhere that sells flat-packed furniture. Nevertheless, on my last visit to Ikea I did completely indulge myself in what I can only describe as a GIANT CREAM HAT. I’ve had one of these before in Stockholm and I think they’re a January/February delicacy. Just a giant puff of cream served with red berries; then you need a gallon of coffee to wash it all down and prevent your throat momentarily closing due to the build up of  lactose-phlegm.  Anyway, that was yesterday. Today takes us to postmodernism and illusions, hallucinogenic for some, illuminated with halogen for others. 

 

I’m declaring myself the postmodern Christiane F of 2009. Much like the Bowie-loving, drug addicted teen protagonist of the 1981 film, I too love to hang out at train stations! But for all the GOOD reasons. I’m smitten with Berlin’s Hauptbahnhof to a degree which is is more than necessary for a train station, but I need to quickly explain the difference between ‘Hbf‘ and any English train stations. When I traveled on a train out of Berlin back in the hot summer, the cheeriest train conducter I’ve met waltzed into my carriage (all glass and cushioned head rests and halogen-spotlighted vanity mirrors!) and sang ‘Kaffeeeeeeeeee? Capucccinoooooooo? ‘ I actually declined because I was so stumped, and half expected him to put out his hand for a 5 euro bill afterwards. 

 

England – trains late

Berlin – trains on time!

England – cup of weak tea/coffe/chocolate with floating rawhide

Berlin – proper cafes!

England – stale Cornish Pasty (if you’re lucky)

Berlin – Italian ice cream parlour!

England – yesterday’s copy of the ‘Daily Diana’

Berlin – Virgin media store!

England – small shop selling polo mints

Berlin – chemist, CLOTHES SHOPS, food court, supermarket

England – curling egg sandwiches, costing £5

Berlin – sushi, miso soup and noodles!

England – shambling psychotic strangers intent on starting conversations with you

Berlin – super-glossy businessmen connecting to WiFi and calling Geneva on their iPhones!

 

I actually go to the Hbf just to go to the Hbf! Maybe buy some new clothes (ok, before the pound started on its slippery slope), get some sushi, have an ice cream, marvel at all that shiny, shiny glass, hear Bowie singing ‘Fame, it’s not your brain, it’s just the flame‘ in my head. Everything I need is in that Hauptbahnhof and I’ve really got no excuse to leave it. I could just shunt back and forth on one of the S-bahns for a bit of a scenery change, but that’s all. Apparently you can also get all the way to Kazakhstan, but then I don’t believe everything I read on Wikipedia. I’m not that much 2009. Nevertheless, that would be one hell of a train journey!

 

A Taiwanese friend of mine told me it’s quite normal for her to meet her friends in the main train station when she goes back to visit, but things have always been super-swishy over in the Far East. I also like the local Hauptbahnhof here  because when you come out of the main entrance, it’s really, really eerie. Exiting at dusk reveals a big concrete, open plaza and then laid out in front of you is the government area, the Reichstag, and to the left you see the “Death Star” TV tower way out in the distance. Behind looms the megalithic glass construction of the station. Our images reflected back, and back again. Truth, standards and ideals lost in a labyrinth of mirrors; the reason and order of the Reichstag, symbolised in the the Brandenburg Tor, glinting back in the glossy windows. It’s a sharp shock returning to the heavy damp air of Berlin after being swaddled in the constant flurry of advertising, the shooting in and out of travel, consumerism, people, 80 cents to spend a penny. Train stations no longer about serving trains. Wir kinder vom Hauptbahnhof - I wish you a very happy 2009. choo choo. choo choo.

It’s a puppy post!

But first I have to say that actually the grit on the icey streets is wearing a bit thin on my patience. Berlin roads aren’t really metaled, in the proper sense, they’re more cobbled. And the cobbles are small squares, with a slight rounded top; perfect for slipping on and over as the tops are polished smooth from many years of street pounding. So proper snow boots are called for. I haven’t yet gone butt over tit and I’m crossing all fingers that it never happens. I’ve also noticed that the worst place where I feel the cold is on the bridge of my nose. Witzig!

The cold then spreads out under my eyes, like a bad sinus headache and it’s not a very easy place to keep bundled up under thermal clothing. Then the tops of my shoulders get cold too. 

 

But….. when cold, hug a puppy!

 

 

Puppies for warmth - ahhhhh.

A shoulder stole.