Home and hosed

This week has been hectic for all the wrong reasons. I’m two weeks out from the last exams of my degree. Hopefully, also the last exams of my life. My first closed-book exams since I was 17. I should be spending time becoming acquainted with Red Bull and other dangerous substances and learning the library hours off by heart. But instead, I’ve spent four days at the biggest festival of my life and have been sidelined by last-minute housing panic. And in 30 minutes I’m going to Munich.

I have so much to write about, but I’m gonna keep it short and snappy.

It’s pretty cynical, but when things seem too good to be true, they usually are. This was certainly the case when the house I had seamlessly and effortlessly organised for July fell through a couple of days ago, 6 days out from the 1st, that all-important D-day for Berlin relocations. In a decision of startling rudeness, the tenant decided to give the room to her friend instead. And because I’m going to Munich in 30 minutes, that left me about 2 days in which to find a new place to live.

Luckily, the housing situation is rather fluid here in Berlin. Websites like wg-gesucht and studenten-wg list hundreds of short-term rentals from a week upwards in almost every part of the city. But the problem is, there’s also heaps of people looking. Most places will have about 20 or 30 replies from a single ad post. I had to act quickly and decisively. So I got on the phone and in the end lined up 6 inspections for 24 hours. An early night and plenty of carbohydrates were on the menu.

At 9pm on Wednesday night they were all finished and I was sitting on Gorlitzer Bahnhof station, beer in hand, waiting for the train home, reflecting on the very unique experience of inspections. How most houses have a shoes-off policy. How I can’t seem to escape the German “shelf-toilet” which seems to serve no other purpose than review. How most students live on the 4th floor, because it’s only the temporary residents who can be arsed climbing up and down all the stairs every time they want to go to Lidl.

And how my favourite part of inspections is meeting the tenants. The disenchanted scientist, who quit his high-flying management consultant career because he couldn’t fake it any more. The retired teacher who develops educational programs for the German voluntary gap year. The cello student from Spain. The hung-over thesis-writing students, obviously awake 3 hours before normal.

But my most favourite part of inspections is when I get the room. And I have. A beautiful big room that belongs to a photography student, a suburb away in Neukolln. It’s on the 4th floor and it has a shelf toilet. But happily, blissfully, it’s mine.

Diplomatic relations

Thursday mornings are indisputably the lowest point of my week. The bane of my Berlin existence - Comparative Constitutional Law at 8.15am. This wouldn’t be a problem if I could join the ranks of normal society and go to sleep before 1.30am. But that’s quite clearly impossible. And because it takes 45 minutes to get to uni, I’ve got to wake up by 7 at the latest. In my old life I could survive that level of deprivation. Not any more.

On days like today, my half-asleep self rationalises an extra 20 minutes slumber. This means I have to skip my life-giving shower to make it out the door on time. And because my last class finishes at 4, I spend the whole day with greasy hair, crusty eyes and a bad temper, propped up by bad coffee. Not pleasant. But I get the job done.

Apologies for the lack of posts over the last week and a half. Things have been a bit upside down. The indestructible Courtney and James have been staying in my room for the last few days, stopping by on their world tour of almost everything. As well as having a great catch-up, it was a fantastic excuse to do some quintessential Berlin things such as the Badeschiff, the Soviet War Memorial and Drinking Four Bottles of Red At Dinner Then Speaking Very Bad German. But they have gone, I’ve just spent a small fortune on stamps for my first batch of postcards, and it’s time to get back to business.

The EU Conference was held on Thursday and Friday last week. Already fatigued from diplomatic rhetoric I’d come across in my preparation research and deeply suspicious of the inherent wankiness of “Model” things, my expectations were low. But those expectations were quickly exceeded. I think it was a combination of our Poland flag, stationary and nametag, the self-important thrill of speaking into a desk-microphone or the political wheeling and dealing with the other delegations, that made it a fun couple of days.

It was a privilege to work with Afghan diplomats and find out what they think about the direction of their country. They are very proud of Afghanistan and wanted to make it clear it wasn’t all suicide attacks and opium. Getting to know my colleague from the Polish delegation, Alibaba, was particularly excellent (even though at the reception I was gobsmacked to discover that he’s the same age as me, even though he looks about 50). Although it’s hard to forget eight years of violent news footage, I now know that Afghanistan isn’t a complete basket case of a state – that it has a future and intelligent, capable people working towards it.

This week we also got a new German teacher. Due to some EU-level regulation, our old teacher Doris could only teach for a part of the semester. When we found out that there’d been an administrative mistake and we could keep her a little longer, the Spanish students started dancing on the tables.

Doris was great. With her double-denim outfits (a combination that former residents of the DDR are particularly fond of), her dyed red hair, cuddly physique and recurrent problems with wild pigs in her garden, she was an excellent storyteller and entertaining teacher. We were sad to see her go. So it was with apprehension that we turned up to class on Wednesday to meet her replacement.

WELL. He’s no Doris, that’s for sure. He’s excitable, quick and hilarious. And he’s loud. So loud that my Estonian friend Birgit had to discretely block her ears beneath her curtain of hair. And he has an aversion to learning the “boring” way. I don’t quite know what to make of him yet, but it looks like he’ll be a good teacher. If we go deaf, at least we’ll be laughing when it happens.

On that side of the brain

I was quite creative when I was young. I used to write songs, make clothes, paint pottery and draw everything I saw. The highlight of my career was Year 12 when I gained fame through my drawings of “Man Of The Week” pro bono in classmate’s school diaries. These sketches were tailored to their personal preferences (Cobain, Depp, Di Caprio, Prinze J – it was 2003, remember), were invariably half-naked (in the PG sense) and were saucily aligned on the right hand side, steaming up Thursday through to Sunday.

But when the time came to make life decisions, I couldn’t justify pursuing art when I had the chance to do law. So I packed away my pencils and got serious. And, sadly, things have remained relatively serious and packed away since then. Until this week, when my Search for Meaning led me to Prenzlauer Berg, up four flights of stairs into a loft and behind an easel for my first life drawing class in years.

Air’s “Moon Safari” playing softly from the sound system was the first thing I was aware of when I walked into the room. An excellent omen. A model lay sprawled on the platform in the middle of the room surrounded by an eclectic mix of artists, some who were painting with oils, others drawing with coal. Everyone was silent, off in their own worlds.

So I picked up an easel and sat down on the ground and started to draw. And even though I couldn’t get the perspective of her legs right and her head looked like it belonged on another body, it didn’t matter – it simply felt great to be drawing again. In the break I felt a little dizzy, but I still managed to butcher the German language with a newly-arrived Korean exchange student and indulge in the pastries and peppermint tea. I am definitely going back.

On another creative tangent, I’ve also started preparations for the Burning Man festival. It’s a long story, but basically I received a scholarship ticket on the condition that I bring a guitar and contribute to the festival by teaching the other attendees German folksongs. While, um, wearing a camel costume.

As my knowledge of German folksongs currently totals zero, the German people in my life have thrown their support behind my endeavour (after having a good ole chuckle, mind). My German teacher Doris burned me her 3 CD collection of 100 Deutsche Volkslieder and circled her favourite ones. My housemate Yvonne has sent me an email full of links to musical/comedy gold from the 1950’s and 1960’s including my personal favourite, Im Wagen vor Mir. This weekend I’m biting the bullet and buying a cheap shit guitar. The camel costume will have to wait until I get past the US customs.

Apart from these happenings, the last week here in Berlin has been stellar. On Sunday I joined 700,000 other Berliners on the Kreuzberg streets for the Karneval der Kulturen, a celebration of multiculturalism which could, in all its beauty and craziness, only happen in Berlin. The best parts? Dancing along the streets as part of a massive portable dancefloor of at least 500 people that followed a float that housed some hell big speakers and a famous techno DJ; an afterparty on a roof high above the festival; and the unforgettably punchy raw-sugar, lime and cachaça combination of Berlin’s signature cocktail, the Caipirinha.

Following the success last week's Audience Participation segment, I have a few more questions for yous:

1. Why is being creative so much fun? and why don't we do it more often?
2. Suggestions on ways/means to make a camel costume? (designs appreciated)