I know I am ugly, but I glow at night

Berlin is bathed in colour. It’s the Festival of Light and all the major landmarks are lit up with the hues of the rainbow. Such a simple idea but it completely changes the atmosphere. You walk around in the cold smiling with glee at each new building, dodging amateur photographers and wayward screaming children. The title of the post was written on a building, and I think it describes it perfectly.

I left Berlin in a t-shirt and arrived back to chattering teeth and breathing fog. My dream of avoiding cold weather this year through timely hemisphere changes has been shattered. Autumn is full of crisp days and outrageously beautiful clouds, or spattering rain, bitter wind and oppressive cloud cover. The trees look amazing though – explosions of red and orange and yellow against the grey.

But colours don’t keep you warm at night. I’ve learnt that 2 skivvies, 2 t-shirts and 3 jumpers does not equal one winter jacket, and if you pay 4 euro for an umbrella it works better in inverse form as a rain-collector.

For the last week or so I’ve been staying with Andrew, a good friend from Melbourne Uni. He’s doing his final semester in Law at F.U., the same as me. Last week was Orientation week and it was a whirlwind of early hours and hectic Erasmus student parties, the latter I tagged along to (and the former I gave my fondest regards to from the comfort of my 10-hours-a-day sleeping habit).

The exchange crowd is full of Spanish and Italian students this semester and it’s got a different flavour – not just more Mediterranean, but crazier and more reckless. It takes a bit to get used to the 2am – 7am nightlife but we had some great nights on the d-floor.

The only downside has been the construction workers at Andrew’s flat. His whole building is covered in scaffolding. They start drilling and hammering at 8am with what must be the very tools of the devil – they sound like they’re chipping away on the inside of your skull.

The last week has been full of farewells. Most of the people I knew have left so this time around there’s been a lot of farewells to the permanent fixtures. I’ve been revisiting places where legends were made and doing those things on my to-do list that never got done.

Berlin is home to Spreewald, an abandoned amusement park a couple of stops outside the city. The details surrounding its demise are sketchy but rumour has it that the owner got in trouble, fled to South America (as naughty Germans do) tried to import drugs back to the country, and somehow his son is now shacked up in a prison somewhere, serving time for the crimes of his father.

The park has been sitting there unused, rusting up and growing over, for the last 10 years. But there still must be something of value there because two full-time security guards patrol the fence.

On the day we broke into Spreewald we didn’t get out of bed until 2.30pm, so by the time we reached the fence it was almost dusk and the rain had started. Not ideal but too late to turn back. We found a hole in the fence and squeezed in and went for a wander.

All the rides were exactly as they were left – the Ferris wheel, the spinning tea cups, the rollercoaster, the floating swan boats – except with a decade’s worth of weather damage and evoking a skin-crawlingly eerie feeling, rather than one of unparalleled joy. We would be walking along through a forest and then suddenly stumble across a dinosaur zoo or a squat inside a former planetarium.

Suddenly it was dark and we started to feel miserable so we made a beeline for where we thought the fence was. Guided only by Andrew’s phone flashlight and ever-watchful for the guards, the atmosphere were tense. We were passing behind a couple of sheds when we heard a menacing growl, followed by a bark. Followed by the sound of something big running towards us.

Being the unflappable adventurers that we are, we immediately lost our shit and leapt up onto the fence. Out of the darkness came the horrible visage of a foot-high, overfed pug dog. It continued to growl and slobber at us as we beat a hasty retreat, making disparaging comments about its size. We scrambled (I would like to say “vaulted” but it simply isn’t true) over a high fence and I ripped my trusty black jeans beyond repair, but it was worth it. A true Berlin experience.

For the last 8 months I’ve avoided the authorities, but my luck has come to an end. On my second day here I decided to buy a weekly ticket for the public transport, as my free student pass is now a thing of the past and my heart isn’t up to the low-level adrenaline that comes with constant fare evasion.

In a gesture of goodwill towards the not-so-fortunate Berliners, I bought a crumpled second-hand ticket from a scalper at the station at a price that was a steal for me and a jackpot for him. It looked legit, he was happy, I felt good about myself.

But barely 24 hours later I was ordered off the train by a grim set of BVG ticket inspectors. These guys are the definition of black letter. Pleading, flattery, emotion, the stupid tourist trick, appealing to their humanity – nothing worked. They handed me a 40 euro fine with a shrug of the shoulders and told me that it was my problem.

After discussing it with Andrew over dinner we decided that the best option was for us to promptly burn it on the balcony. I don’t think the debt collectors are going to hound me when I’m overseas. All I need to do is clear the border tonight and I’ll be free.

This last week of Berlin has gotten my head into the right space to come home. Putting aside the question of money, all signs indicate that it’s time. The planes in the sky are always Qantas. Crowded House and Nick Cave are on unusually high rotation on my ipod. I’d got the feeling that I’d run out of people to see and things to do in Berlin, which, as it is technically impossible, indicates a prepared state of mind.

As I count down the hours until my departure, I’m feeling happy and peaceful. But it’s been a tumultuous eight months. I’ve struggled a lot with what feels like a lack of direction and meaning, of having too much time and not enough purpose. But being forced to stop and look around has made me think about what these things mean to me. I haven’t taken time to do that before.

On my last exchange, I grew up. This time, I grew out. I mean, I’m not talking about physical size (although two weeks on pastries and felafels definitely qualifies me for a few brisk jogs in the upcoming months). Out in terms of breadth. It feels like I have more space in my mind and in my heart. And I feel like my life is a closer fit.

As I wandered through the duty free this evening at Tegel Airport, I realised that I don't need to buy myself anything to remind me of Berlin. I already have my most important souvenir.

Griechenland

I arrived into Greece around midnight in a jet-lagged stupor (quite possibly the worst I’ve experienced) and went straight to my hostel, where the complimentary shot of ouzo and a few cheeky beers did nothing to put me to sleep. The next day was just as grim. You know you’ve got it bad when you arrive in a brand new country and your only thoughts are of sanctuary in the touristy part of town, where you’ll pay treble normal price for bad coffee and the privilege of sitting among people as disorientated as yourself

But a few pastries later I was feeling greatly revived, and went for a wander around some pretty spectacular sights. The Acropolis, with its outstanding view over Athens; the Parthenon, covered in scaffolding; the Temple of Zeus with one pillar toppled over like a stack of pikelets.

Athens to me resembles an eastern European capital city, which I guess technically it is. Commenting on the poor reviews that the town gets, a friend said that people come expecting a stylish and cosmopolitan Western-style capital (which it actually calls itself in tourism material) when it’s really a chaotic, unpretentious and polluted city with, you know, some of the greatest relics of civilization spotted here and there. Often in train stations. Or in the middle of roundabouts.

This leg of my journey I’m doing solo, and given the recent history of single Australian women travelling in this part of the world I’m particularly on my toes re: personal safety. The overly affectionate manner of some Greek men hasn’t helped. Many women resort to wearing a ring on their wedding finger. That seems like overkill to me – I’ve just reinforced the frostiness of my fuck-off face instead and am grateful that as far as the language goes, it’s all Greek to me…

Athens gave me an unforgettable welcoming. It was shortly before 8pm and I had dragged myself out of my room and into the bar area to make talk with the punters. Just when I was wondering how to extricate myself from a conversation about the relative merits of Melbourne suburbs with the typical Aussie crowd, there was an enormous !!!!BOOM!!!! The entire building shook and the sound of breaking glass was everywhere.

There was total stunned silence before someone said “That’s a bomb”, and suddenly car alarms were going off outside and people were yelling. We hurried on up to the reception area. The receptionist was ghostly white and on the phone with another two ringing nearby.

Being the stupid souls that backpackers generally are, we snuck down the stairs for a look around, but the police were onto us and shouted at us to get back inside. A couple from America remarked dryly that despite spending six months in Israel, they’d had to come to Athens to get close to an explosion.

Eventually we found out that in reaction to the massive election rally happening at the end of the street, someone had put a bomb in a bin down the road and timed it to go off just before the President’s speech. Apparently the police got word of it and had cleared out the street, so no-one was hurt. But it aptly captured the frustration of the population, expressed in a markedly more democratic way a couple of days later when the government was sent packing.

My next stop was a few days of Total Relaxation on the island of Santorini, a piece of paradise about 7 hours from the mainland. Peak season has ended and October is the last month before the place effectively closes down for the winter. Many parts of the island resemble a ghost town. Deck chairs are vacant. Restaurants are lonely places. Even the happy hours look depressed.

But this skeletal quality made the place even better. I’ve never known such peace or happiness doing so little. Most days I would wake up late, eat breakfast and mosey on down to the pool, where I’d spend most of the day swimming, reading, eating and drinking Pina Coladas. If I was feeling energetic I could stroll down to the famous black sand beaches for a dip in the ocean, or go hiking in the hills around the town, or take the bus to the other side of the island to watch the most beautiful sunset in Greece and get giddy from the romantic/sexual tension exuded by 200+ couples.

Santorini could have had me in its clutches for weeks, but I was destined for greater things. So 24 hours and a ferry, a taxi, a hostel and a train later, I met my friend Eleni in Thessaloniki, Greece’s 2^nd largest city. Eleni is a curly-haired, perpetually smiling Greek lass who I met in my language course. For the last 2 days I’ve been living at her family home and being lovingly pampered by her mother, who spoke no English but force-fed me Greek pastries and coffee, showed me how the shower worked, and slipped tissues, water and a spare jumper into my bag when I wasn’t looking.

A two-day visit is ridiculously short, but we fit a lot in. There was a late-night Erasmus party beside the harbour (bringing back all types of memories not yet committed to nostalgia), a language exchange and birthday party at a co-op bar, drinking icy frappes, climbing up and down ancient fortifications, hanging out with her beautiful and funny friends, learning some rudimentary Greek, and my personal highlight, eating four types of cheeses at one sitting.

And before I knew it the time had come and I was back on a train to Athens, and now I’m on the plane back to Berlin for one final week in Europe. My visa inconveniently expires on the 15^th and I’m leaving on the 18^th – I’m sorely hoping this is overlooked by the powers that be so that I can spend my final days climbing the Reichstag and going to the top of the Fernsehturm and having other touristic delights, rather than disrespecting myself in the immigration queues.

A more formidable obstacle to overcome before my departure is War and Peace. I haven’t touched Russian literature since Crime and Punishment got me into the few conversations I’ve had with sober strangers on Melbourne trams, albeit because they mistakenly believed me to be enigmatic and learned, with a masochistic kink.

I bought War (we’re on a first-name basis now) for 2 euro, knowing that the page:cent ratio was probably the best on the market. That was 10 weeks ago and the score is now 1094 pages to me and 480 to Tolstoy’s long-winded genius. The cover is long gone, the dedication and table of contents pages ripped off last week, and I’m rushing to finish it before I lose the introduction to the dark forces at play in my hand luggage.

If I don’t finish it now, it’ll never happen. There’s no way I’m taking that literary anvil in my checked luggage and forfeiting precious kilograms better suited to snow domes and beer steins.