Bitte nicht von der Seite springen

When one has the luxury of expansive amounts of free time, one also gains the patience to do things that take time. Cooking, for example. Reading dense literary classics. Learning to appreciate classical music. Travelling vast distances without a second thought. It was in this vein that I found myself early on Wednesday morning at a swimming pool in Spandau, a suburb at the very end of my train line (read: the very edge of the earth) a good hour and a half away from my apartment.

The Spandau pool was certainly worth the trip. The pools are the centrepieces of a massive green park with trees, valleys and several food outlets. Wearing a bikini for the first time in months, and ignoring the wind, the cold and the purple sky in the distance, Cat and I did leisurely laps of the Olympic-sized swimming pool. Being a cold, windy weekday, our only companions were an elderly couple and a family of ducks. We snuck down the waterslide when the lifeguard wasn’t watching, then showered, got dressed and dutifully went to Uni.

The Berlin spring continues to surprise. Recently, the air has been thick with white fluff that whoosh around with the wind and collect in furballs in stairwells. The stuff is everywhere and it gets everywhere. My German teacher said it comes from the poplar trees and creates all types of hell for allergies.

But I haven’t seen it since the Great Downpour of Tuesday. When we began our International Criminal Justice seminar, the day was muggy and hot (by “hot” I mean about 28 degrees – it’s embarrassing how pathetic my thermostat has become). When we finished, it had started to rain in a heavy and tough-looking manner. Being too impatient and probably too stupid, James and I decided to make a break for it and sprint to the station.

It was wild. I lost my shoes a few times on the way and by the time we reached cover my I was soaked down to my underwear. It’s very lonely, travelling home when you look like the proverbial drowned rat – avoiding the piercing, smug stares of the umbrella-wielding locals and making your own puddle in the middle of the carriage.

A part of spring that I’m having considerably more success with are the public holidays. April and May have been chock-full of them – it seems like every second week we’re celebrating Labour Day or Whit Monday or something equally as wonderful. Last Thursday was Ascension Day and Tessa and I took advantage of no university to get out of Berlin and check out Hamburg. While I’ve been to Sweden twice, in my three months in Berlin I’ve yet to leave the city limits for another German location. Good to put my city-slicking to an end.

My housemates described Hamburg as the ‘grown-up Berlin’ and it’s true, there was a marked increase in sports cars and pastel sweaters. Hamburg is a lovely stately place. Like Berlin, it was almost completely levelled in WWII so most of the old things that we saw were reconstructions. It’s also a harbour town, as we discovered on our ferry ride to nowhere in particular with hundreds of other German tourists. And, of course, it also has an underbelly – a seedy street called Reeperbahn where you can buy guns and ginormous dildos from the same shop.

But Tessa and I both admitted that our favourite parts of Hamburg were the ones that reminded us of Berlin. A bit sad, but the truth. While it was refreshing to get out of the city and fun being a tourist again, there’s nothing like seeing the Fernsehturm on the skyline again.

This has been a really long post but there’s something else I have to tell you. At the end of my studies here I’ve decided to go to North America. My family is going to a folk music festival in the Rockies in Canada, and I’m going to join them for a family reunion. I guess it’s not as daggy if it’s in another country, right…? After that, Leah and I will be travelling around the South (mostly for the mint juleps) eventually ending up at the Burning Man festival in Nevada. After that? Hopefully, California bound. After that, back to Europe for a month and a half, then back to the Motherland.

I now have two questions for the studio audience:

1) Is it okay to be absolutely, completely broke?

And, more importantly

2) Will I need to change the name of this blog??

When a German Stares

In Germany, there is no social convention that limits a stare to the time needed to register another person’s presence. The German stare is harsh and unforgiving. It’s like you’ve accidently left a boob hanging out in the complicated process of getting dressed; like you have an entire spinach plant stuck between your teeth. It’s not appreciative, nor is it a neutral appraisal. When a German stares, you feel a pressing need to justify your existence.

The stare, and how to live with it, is a hotly debated topic in expat forums. In most countries you just need make eye contact and the starer will quickly look away or pretend they were looking over your shoulder. But here, staring back will only ensnare you in an uncomfortable game of chicken. The loser blinks. You save your pride and sanity if you just ignore it.

But getting used to the stare means that you are completely disarmed when a starer takes things the next level. It was Tuesday, around 11am, and I was in between trains on my way to H.U.. I was somewhat distracted by my iPod (more specifically, Prince’s not-so-subtle double entendres) so I didn’t realise the man in a straw hat walk towards me, place his face directly in front of mine and stare intently at my head. I was startled but, like a good Berliner, pretended that everything was normal.

A minute or so passed. I realised this situation was going nowhere quickly, so pulling out my earphones, said:

Me: err…Ja?

Herr: (long pause, leans in) Incomprehensible German.

Me : <thinking: am I being propositioned? Is this guy 100%?> Ahh, es tut mir leid, ich spreche nur ein bisschen Deutsch.

Herr: (long pause, squints) What do you in Berlin study?

Me: <thinking: I don’t even look like a student today! I’ve brushed my hair! Do I finally have my own stalker after 23 lonely years of being ignored by the crazies of the world?> Law. Jura. Er, Rechtswissenschaft?

Herr: Kommen Sie aus U.S.A?

Me: Nein, ich komme aus Australien

Herr: (pause) Ahhh! (walks away and steps immediately onto the next carriage)

I know this isn’t a remarkable conversation, but in the three months I’ve been riding the U-Bahn, it’s the longest I’ve had. Back in Australia, staring is just plain rude. But I’ve gotten so used to the silent, socially acceptable communication that the whole exchange left me weirdly unsettled.

Perhaps it’s because people treat other people differently here in Germany. The Protection of Human Dignity is the most important concept in German Basic Law, sitting pretty in the very first article in the very first section of the German Constitution. But it’s no secret that Germans can be a little abrupt. Apologies, even when fault is clear, are rare. As someone remarked last week, it’s one of the few countries in the world where “No” is a complete and acceptable response to a question.

At first, this all seemed a little hypocritical. But it’s becoming clear that brusqueness does not equal disrespect. At least it’s the truth. It seems that people won’t ask you how you’re going unless they actually care, and if they don’t feel like going out, they simply won’t. I find this streamlined approach refreshing. It’s better than being drowned in our social niceties. Perhaps human dignity is better protected by being honest.

What to do?

So I’m back. Last week was a tricky week for me. Earlier on in this blog I wrote about how liberating it felt to have so much time on my hands. Last week I experienced the flip-side of that.

I’m not used to doing so little, to being so free. For example: I haven’t organised an event since my farewell party. I went from working 50 hours a week to working none. This blog is my only extra-curricular activity. Studying is a leisurely pursuit, requiring a very minimum time commitment (unlike my Australian counterparts, who at this very moment in preparation for exams are cutting off all contact with the outside world and buying Red Bull in slabs).

But nature abhors a vaccum, and the void has quickly been filled by dancing, drinking, partying and general merriment. Which, of course, is lots of fun. But while it’s helped me to deprogram myself from the pace of life back home, I don’t think it’s enough to structure my life around. God forbid, I think I’m looking for a little more meaning in my exchange. I’ll let you know what I come up with.

In the meantime, I’ve decided that I should take my studies a little more seriously. And it doesn’t get much more serious than a meeting at the German Federal Foreign Office on the topic of „Committing to a New EU-Afghan Partnership – Review of the EU-Afghanistan Joint Declaration”.

I’m doing a subject called Model European Union. It’s also known (to exchange students) as a “jackpot” subject – it counts for a massive 10 ECTS, the equivalent of two and a half normal subjects. Model things have never been my thing, but this offer was hard to refuse. Also, as my knowledge of the EU is limited to the Euro, the Schengen Agreement and incomprehension regarding the legal ‚Pillars’ of the ‚Temple’ I thought it would be a great way to learn.

The dress code was “Business Style” and since the most businessy thing I own is a pair of skinny black jeans, an urgent shopping trip was required. An indecisive hour in H&M later I stepped out onto the street in corporate attire, not quite believing that I was wearing sheer stockings and a crisply ironed shirt a) in Berlin, capital city of casual comfort; and b) almost a full year before I actually get paid to wear anything as dour again.

A retired German diplomat, who looked like he was born to wear a safari suit and sip English Tea at some colonial outpost (AND had Baroque music as his ringtone!) chaired the session. Half of the attendees were students from F.U., the other half trainee diplomats from Afghanistan’s equivalent of DFAT. I ended up with Poland, and I’m working with an Afghani gentleman called Alibaba. My homework is to acquaint myself with Afghanistan’s history which is no easy task. I’m taking it slowly.

As my bike is now plumbing the depths of utter uselessness, I’m turning to other ways of fitness. Jogging is one of them. I live right across the road from Volkspark Hasenheide, one of Berlin’s phenomenal green spots. As well as containing fields and forests, lakes, a dog paddock, a petting zoo and, at present, a medium-sized fairground, it is also criss-crossed with running tracks. Most mornings I roll out of bed, tie on my runners and do a bleary-eyed lap before I wake up enough to protest.

Hasenheide is also full of drug dealers. From the break of day tracksuited men take up their positions around the park, whispering „Alles klar?“ to startled pink-faced joggers. If you wait long enough, you can watch straight-laced Germans walking determinedly off the path and into the shrubbery to meet their Man. A police wagon routinely does a crawl around the perimiter but I’ve yet to see them make any busts. I’ve never felt unsafe, but the contrast between the beauty of the park and the seediness of its internal commerce strikes me every time.

interlude

This week has been pretty extraordinary on a number of fronts, including:

• May Day in Kreuzberg.
  
• Baumblutenfest with the lovely Inga and her hilarious German friends.
  
• Traditional German Feast with Inga in her bitchin' apartment.
• 3 separate foosball ("kicker") games with assorted Germans, at each occasion losing comprehensively.
• First episode of quintessential crime show "Tatort" watched with housemates in reverential silence. 

Sadly, on the blogging front things are grim. Motivation and inspiration, once in abundance,  have fled for the hills. But I didn't want to leave the regulars (all four of you) hanging, so this is just a temporary update so you know that things are still chugging along here. If you think you've got the goods to write a decent substitute, please feel free to utilize the comments box. Back soon, yous. 

Australians

Last weekend myself and four other Australians travelled to Stockholm for no other reason other than four months ago, Ryanair was having a sale. But despite this inauspicious beginning, a fantastic time was had by all. Every aspect of Stockholm is beautiful: the people, the various old things, the boats, the dogs and the parks. It was also fun to spend time with a group of home-grown Aussies: your humour is understood and your cultural references recognised. And so this is an opportune time to write about a topic that’s been bothering me for a while: Australians.

Meeting Australians is the last reason that any Australian travels overseas, but it’s inevitable that you will - despite your best efforts to avoid them. We dominate the backpacker trail – thanks to the culturally encouraged rite-of-passage that is Overseas Travel, we are a permanent fixture in hostels across Europe. You can find us by following the trail of spirit bottles, loud voices and Havaianas.

There are Australians lurking around every corner in Berlin. Leaving wine-cork hats, ug boots and flannel back in the homeland, they’ve managed to blend into the environment so their presence is mostly unfelt. But once an Australian says anything in English anywhere in public, if another Australian is in the vicinity odds are they’ll come and introduce themselves. This has happened in nightclubs and bars, in every one of my law classes, after a phone conversation on the street. Even in yoga class, where silence is mandatory!

Sometimes, I really hate Australians. With the broad, lazy, nasal accent, it seems impossible that anyone could take us seriously. Entire conversations are sometimes spent locked in a cultural cringe. When Australians get drunk the talk becomes parochial and they carry on with little regard to the fact that Australia is actually both insignificant and boring. Sometimes we forget that no-one outside the citizenry cares about Australian politics, university structure or whether Home and Away or Neighbours has superior plot development.

So every time I meet a new Australian, I have this double feeling of happiness and guilt/shame. Mostly, good things happen. The last time I met new Australians it was on the U-Bahn home from uni and we ended up having dinner that night of pizza and house red streetside near Nollendorfplatz. It’s easy to become friends with someone when you share a background. Bluntly, you have things to talk about.

But I dread ending up cocooned by ‘Strine. It’s comfortable, sure, but it’s silly and it’s not what I want. And (with respect to all concerned) I don’t want to become like the Americans. I know the university is lousy with them, but I haven’t met any kids from the US yet. Apparently they hang out always together and don’t mix much.

Yet some of my closest friends are Australians I have met overseas. And some Australians here I can do without. As time goes on people become friends simply because they’re awesome, rather than due to relationships of nationality or convenience or obligation. Being “Australian” doesn’t matter. I guess Stockholm provides a weird illustration of this: we spent ANZAC day - one of the most patriotic days on our calendar - on a pirate-themed gay bar on a ship in the middle of the harbour.

Hitting the books

Before I left for Berlin, the man at the international exchange office informed me that if I didn’t speak much German I would find university impossible. He recommended that I go somewhere easier, perhaps Scandinavia? Smirking inwardly, I politely told him the decision was made. He rolled his eyes, shrugged his shoulders and, turning back to his computer, said ‘Well, if you phone our office in tears, don’t say that I didn’t warn you’.

It’s now the second week of the German summer semester and my apparently imminent breakdown has yet to appear. But the cobwebs have been well and truly shaken from my neurons and I am thinking again. After five months in the wilderness, there’s something oddly comforting about having something academic to bitch about, sifting through poorly-structured and woefully lengthy cases and fronting up to class plus hangover and große Kaffee but minus pens, paper and a shower.

As it turns out, I’m going to be studying at two universities. Humboldt University was my original first preference. Located right on Unter Den Linden, the main Straße in the city, lovingly decorated with statues, columns and the odd touch of gold; producer of almost 30 Nobel Prize winners – it’s a postcard-perfect dreamboat institution.

However, things aren’t so pretty beneath its reconstructed façade. Humboldt’s ranking has been slipping for quite some time - it seems like they’re relying on their prestige (much like another well-known institution dear to my heart) to keep attendance up. The Law Faculty’s financial situation appears so dire that during the summer break the building is covered by a tennis-court sized advertisement for Mercedes-Benz. Inside, lecture theaters are filled with wooden desks which come with inkpot holes. It seems that things just haven’t been the same since the infamous book burning incident of 1933.

I considered Freie University to be the ‘Monash’ of Berlin and originally I wasn’t too happy to have to enroll here instead of Humboldt. However, I have been pleasantly surprised. While it’s located far, far away from everything (except perhaps a lake, a conservative suburb and a French restaurant) once you get here things are quite good. It’s spread-out and lush – when the weather is fine you can take a spot on the grass and do your homework amongst the students eating icecreams. The buildings are modern, the classrooms are light and the cafeteria is adequate. While it’s slim on law classes in English, they offer free language classes for everyone. My 12 free hours of German a week has convinced me that I should never judge a university by its website, nor following a Google Maps search.

This afternoon I’ve got Recent Cases in Public International Law and European Law, a subject sorely lacking a memorable acronym. The next hurdle is to try and get these subjects approved by my home university so I can receive a full semester’s worth of credits so I can be free and clear of my law degree forever. I’m going to leave all that until after the weekend though, to resolve on my victorious return from Stockholm. Sweden again, you ask? Well, as those in the know will tell you, too much Svensk is never enough.

Down and dirty

During my first month in Berlin, the strongest impression I got about the character of the city was that it was unhinged: unpredictable, weird, and a little on the violent side. Guidebooks say that Berlin is “gritty” which also reads as “real” which then becomes a marketable tourist attraction in itself.

Admittedly, my view of the city has been skewed by location (Kreuzberg) commitments (spending a lot of time on the public transport to get everywhere) and circumstance (being unable to communicate and fresh to a country makes you notice a lot more, especially the freaky stuff). Here’s a few notable occurrences that have led me to believe that things here are a bit, well – perhaps “gritty” is the best word? Suggestions?

• The ever-present ‘Securitas’ security staff at Kottbusser Tor station with their buzz-cuts, navy jumpsuits and muzzled Alsatians.

• An aggressive, soot-stained Berlin magpie (a bigger, meaner and morally questionable version of the Australian variety) picking through the carcass of a sparrow on the U-Bahn platform.

• An extraordinary brawl in Kaisers Supermarket checkout queue between a babyfaced teenager on crutches and a rough-looking bleached blonde woman buying two litres of beer. I tried to disappear into the cigarette counter as words turned to fists and other braver shoppers stepped in to intervene.

• Becoming well acquainted with the Doppler effect as a procession of firetrucks, ambulances and police cars speed around Kreuzberg at all hours of the day/night.

• The pool of blood on the faux-marble footpath on Tauentzien Str. (the slick franchise strip near where I had my German lessons) which darkened from bright red to maroon in the time it took us to learn about the past perfect tense.

• The prostitutes prowling around on Oranienburger Str. on Monday morning, singularly clad in white thigh-high boots, lace-up corsets and super-duper-wonderbras.

• The sedate-looking man at the bus station with a large grey African parrot swinging from his shoulder.

• Men snorting amphetamines off their fists on the top floor of Kunsthaus Tacheles, eyeballing the other patrons and crashing into everyone on the dancefloor.
  

But that was during March and the dregs of winter. It’s now April and spring, and it seems like the genetic makeup of Berlin has changed entirely. Trees are blossoming, birds are singing, people are sunbathing nude, love is in the air. Perhaps the dirtier Berlin has gone into hibernation.