Der Himmel über Berlin

Right now, I should be sitting down to Berlin's biggest schnitzel while celebrating the end of my German class with my classmates. But instead I'm at home blogging. I'm not quite sure how this happened. I turned up on time (my on time, which means twenty minutes late) and there was no-one there.

Had they integrated so much into German society that they ordered, ate, had fun and left all in twenty minutes, maximum efficiency? Improbable.

So I went to where we have class. Locked. Closed. Shut. No-one there. Was it just an elaborate joke to have me running around like an idiot for an hour? Unlikely, I'm wonderful and only a fool would miss the chance to hang out with me.

So I obviously misunderstood the time. Or date. Or location. Or something. Just when I thought my German was getting pretty good. And now I'll never see my lovely classmates again. I really liked them. It's so much easier to talk to other foreigners in German than actual Germans. They don't hear every mistake and they don't judge you on whatever silly foreign accent you have. And they don't break into English as soon as they hear my accent. Which I like.

I'm pretty surprised at how sad I feel about this. I have been feeling really emotional all this week; I think it's tiredness. I'm working too much and it sucks. This week I have been veering much more between emotional extremes - from feeling like crying to feeling surges of joy to getting angry at things I normally wouldn't.

OK, shut up, going to drink a nice German beer. At least I can't misunderstand that.

Last week my loyal MP3 player coughed, spluttered and died. It had been coming. I had noticed that he was finding it harder and harder to get up in the mornings, often needing a quick reset by sticking a paper click into his little reset hole. But this was a temporary fix, an MP3 defibrillator, never likely to save him.

So when the sad day finally came, I grieved. Remembered the good times and the bad. I remembered how well he protected me from one of my greatest fears - the sounds of normal life. Never did I hear yelled conversations on the train, to babies crying I was oblivious. Beggars never got a penny from me, I was simply unaware of them. The thought of being exposed to this world filled me with fear.

So I stole my girlfriend's iPod.

And it opened my eyes.

My taste in music had always been eclectic, but generic. Bit of rock, some electronic, some folk and traditional Irish, nothing exciting. My girlfriend, a former classical clarinettist turned punk-rock superstar, had an MP3 player full of nasty loud punk, and Beethoven.

Ah, Beethoven. How, for 23 years, was I so unaware of your wonderfulness? How did I not know of the sublime feeling of calm alertness you provoke in me? How had I never honoured my ears with your delicate subtelty and your inspiring power?

So I have been listening to classical music over the last week. I'm still dreadfully ignorant, but I know what I like. And I know that I like how it makes me feel. And I know that I like how it can change menial tasks into works of art. I'm not cleaning the toilet, I'm restoring a wonderful painting to its former glory. I'm not studying grammar, I'm putting together the wonderful jigsaw of language.

I feel new. I want more.

It had been a long time since I did somthing a little bit crazy for football, so the time was about right.

Over a year, in fact, since I went through four countries in eight hours, spent the night huddled up in a bus shelter, and went a whole weekend without sleep to see my beloved Sampdoria in action against Lens in the UEFA Cup (and we lost 1-2 with a last minute goal).

Almost a year and a half since I moved to Berlin to get set up with a place to stay and a job, in order to be here for the World Cup (and I'm still here).

Over three and a half years since I moved to Genoa in Italy to support my aforementioned beloved Samp for a year, traipsing around the country after them, from Verona to Siena to Milano and Torino and back again.

Over four and a half years since I started learning Italian with the purpose of being better able to support Samp.

So, the time was nigh for something new. So when the Football Association of Ireland emailed me last week, offering me tickets to Ireland v Wales in Croke Park, I sprung into action, immediately booking my flights - Berlin to Dublin on Saturday morning, Dublin to Berlin at 6am the following morning.

But this was no ordinary football game. This was in Croke Park, the home of Gaelic Games in Ireland for over 100 years. The governing body of our Gealic games, the GAA, being narrow-minded bigots, had always stoutly refused to allow foreign games to be played on the hallowed Croker turf (despite never applying such a rule to prevent lucrative concerts taking place there, even ones by hated foreign artists). This rule, however, was eventually loosened to allow rugby and football to be played there while our other ground, Lansdowne Road, is undergoing redevelopment. The thought of being one of 80,000 people there for the first ever game of football there was far to alluring to resist.

For someone who lives in Germany, with their wonders of efficient transport, Dublin can come as quite a shock to the system. The buses stop at 11.30 pm and don't start until 6.30 am. There are two tram lines that don't meet, and don't go anywhere near the airport, or Croke Park, for that matter. My sister told me that they were thinking about building a train station at the stadium, but plans were abandoned as too many people would want to use it. Isn't that amazing? There are plans for a metro to the airport, but I expect pigs will have evolved and grown wings by the time we see that.

Anyway, the match itself was pretty exciting from my point of view, and I thought Ireland deserved more than their 1-0 win. The opinions on the streets though, were that it was one of the worse games of football ever played, but I think they were just jealous that they weren't there. My opinion that the gods are football fans was reinforced by the sun belting down on us all afternoon from a couldless sky. Just like at the World Cup, the weather came good at just the right time.

But then the fun started. After the match, me and my dad sat in traffic for over an hour. Surprisingly, he took it very well and didn't get all snappy and stressed like he usually does when forced to drive in Dublin. I think it was because I'm such a fabulous navigator. Began to unwillingly think about how I would get to the airport for 6am, and matters became complicated as I started drinking a few well-earned Guinnesses. As we all know, time slips by remarkably quicky when one is surrounded by Guinness and old friends, and before I knew it, I was faced with a sprint to the tram to get the last one into the city centre. This was one of the two tram lines that don't intersect with each other, so, exasperated and exhausted, I just got a taxi from the city centre to my friend's house, from where I intended to get a taxi to the airport around 4.30am. Of course, the taxi driver got completely lost and we drove around aimlessly for ages before I just got out and walked. Just as I was beginning to happily contemplate my two hour's sleep, I realised with horror that the clocks had gone forward. Just a quick nap for me then. Better than nothing. But only just.

The Ryanair plane sat at Dublin airport for over an hour, as they forgot to put fuel in. I'm glad they realised this ten minutes before take off, rather than ten minutes after. There were a number of very agitated babies on board, and they were making their feelings known in the loudest fashion possible. At times like that, I am very jealous at the emotional freedom afforded to babies by society. I wished that it would be ok for me to howl, as I really wanted to. Well, since I was wishing things, I probably would have wished that it would be societally ok for me to fling the baby headlong out the fucking window, the loud little bastard.

As I sat on the bus back home in Berlin, the baby come on with his tired-looking parents. The little fucker was looking irresistable cute, as if he could never do anything to offend anyone. I think he knew I was onto him as he shot me a dirty look. It was returned with interest. Little fuck.

But, all in all, it was worth the expense, it was worth the stress and it was worth the brief homicidal tendancies that Dublin always prokoves in me.

Roll on next football adventure!

I’m taking the transition from almost complete idleness to having almost no free time rather badly, as illustrated by yesterday’s attempt to squeeze nine hours of work all over Berlin into a twelve hour period.

I had planned all my trains and connections meticulously, allowing minimal time between each appointment. Yes, with hindsight, it was naïve, but the German in me was telling me that everything would run like smooth silky chocolate, right? Well, nearly.

I had three flat-out sprints on three different occasions to catch my various means of transport, one bus being so on time that it was early. I was swaggering happily to the bus stop, safe in the knowledge that I had two minutes to spare, when it whizzed past me. I’m can't be sure, but the driver seemed to have a triumphant smirk on his face, showing the world just how efficient the germans can be. The passengers had a right old giggle at me running full tilt after it, just about catching up thanks to a well-placed traffic light. I would have smiled in a self-congratulatory fashion on stepping on board if I hadn’t been more concerned with the more immediate problem of not being able to breathe.
The second sprint wasn’t so lucky. The train was just pulling away as I collapsed into a crumpled smelly heap on the platform. However, if it wasn’t for missing this train, I would never have experienced the little oasis of calm that followed. Berlin’s leafy western suburbs are filled with all sorts of wildlife, and a wild pig had emerged into the spring sunshine, snuffling in the undergrowth with four baby piglets scampering enthusiastically after her. They were just the cutest little things I have ever seen. Blissfully unaware of the growing crowd of onlookers, they reminded all of us foolish people on the platform (or maybe just me) that life is much more enjoyable when taken at it’s own pace, not rushing for trains to keep appointments.

When these two months of intensive work are over, I shall go back to being a content, relaxed wild pig.

It had been sneaking up on us for a few weeks, but yesterday springtime jumped out from behind a budding bush and loudly proclaimed the demise of winter for another year. Well, hopefully. Last March, we had something similar for a few days before it started bloody snowing again.

I love this time of year - it seems that everyone on the street just becomes exponentially happier. After months and months of everyone being wrapped up and miserable, it's like a striptease show to see the wonderfully wholesome German girls in their colourful summery clothes. I'm not sure that they're as pleased to see my white-as-death arms peeking out from under my t-shirt though. I nearly got sunburned sitting by the window in the office. It felt great.

The 17 degrees set me off thinking of wild fantasies for the summer. Camping! Cycling trips! Drinking cold beer in the park! Tabletennis! Going to the lake! Berlin is such a strange city - the thought of summer here can set one thinking of the wildest, happiest fantasies, utterly incapable of recalling the fact that winter here is bleak, cold and miserable. I can't even remember that in November it got dark before it even got bright. Now the sun wakes me up gently at 6 a.m. and it feels wonderful. Much more natural than an obnoxious alarm shrieking at me at 8 a.m. when it's still as bloody dark as it was when I went to bed.

Oh, and the beach! Ice cream! Walks in the park! Flowers blooming everywhere!

As soon as I got home last night, I began to panic frantically about what the bloody hell I was going to do to keep nine uninterested, unemployed Brandenburgers from killing me for eight hours while simultaneously trying to convince my bosses that I’m actually teaching them English. Managed to throw together enough material for a couple of hours before abandoning all hope and starting drinking. An interesting response – when faced with a seemingly insurmountable problem, I flipped out, started drinking and put on the football, trying desperately to ignore the need to scream in desperation.

Ok, 5am. Went through all my normal morning processes, got my trains and settled down for the journey, trying my utmost to think about anything except the day that was about to follow. I actually succeeded in calming myself down a couple of times, before the sadistic part of my brain happily reminded me that what I was about to do was akin to going to war armed with a rusty spoon.
The train cuts through a lot of forested area, and there were deer frolicking gaily outside as the sun rose moodily. Carefree little bastards. I had Josh Ritter’s Golden Age of Radio playing on loop, as this album has a more calming effect on me than any other thing in the world.
I was vaguely hoping for some sort of train crash that would injure me just enough to not have to do this, but of course, the trains being German and all, could probably survive a nuclear holocaust with only the slightest of damage to the paintwork. But as it turned out, I didn’t even have a head-on collision to save me.

But do you want to know how much of an idiot I am? Of course you do.

It was fine. Absolutely fine. The guys who really didn’t want to be there didn’t turn up, so I was left with six pretty enthusiastic learners, and everything went swimmingly. I had plenty of time during the lunch break to throw something together for the afternoon, and despite everyone getting pretty tired by the end, they definitely enjoyed the class and probably even learned something as well. Even though one of them inexplicably started crying (don’t worry, I’m really used to this – when I teach kids, I usually get one cryer per class. But, seriously, I am a good teacher. Just don’t ask little Paolo in Milan, he mightn’t agree) the whole thing went so much better than I ever imagined. Well, actually, now that I think about it, a scenario where everything went really well never once entered my head. Pretty bad form for an optimist, I’d say.

As I waited for the train home, there were some workmen landscaping a little area of wasteland nearby. Except, on closer inspection, they were actually heftily built workwomen, and were enthusiastically shovelling much more soil than I ever would be able to. And I’m a former landscaper. Obviously the inbred women turn out better than the inbred men in this town.

Since we’ve had so much time to mentally prepare ourselves, the alarm screeching into our ears at 5am wasn’t as nasty a surprise as you might expect. Despite this though, I still can’t get my head around the fact that we are starting teaching a fulltime intensive English course. This is the real test. I have been farting around Berlin for the last year, teaching one-on-one private lessons, relying on charisma and charm rather than actual teaching ability to get me through. This though, this will make me or break me as a teacher. She will be doing Mondays to Wednesdays, and Thursdays and Fridays are for me. This being the first day though, they want us both there to introduce us to the students, who are unemployed young people from in and around Brandenburg, a town 70km west of Berlin (hence the devilishly early rising – why did they have to be all German and start the course at 7.30am?).

We’ve had to go along to Brandenburg a couple of times during the last weeks for contract negotiations, and I couldn’t help but notice how rough the youth there look. I suppose it’s the same for any smallish town anywhere though – the youth of my hometown in Ireland are pretty rough looking too.
I don’t have to bloody teach them though.
From the 90 minutes I spent in class with herself though, it seems that my fears were mostly unfounded. Most of them seemed pretty interested, although one was openly hostile about that fact that she was being forced to attend in order to be allowed to continue drawing the dole. None looked as rough as some of the specimens on the train, and some were even as nervous as we were. My nerves were nothing compared to what they will be on Thursday, when I’m alone with them. Just a roomful of elementary English students, waiting for me to impart knowledge on them. Oh, the horror! I can deal with it when the expectant learners are children, as I can just do something stupid and funny to distract them if things start going wrong. These guys though…probably not such an easy audience.

Leaving herself to work her magic, I set off rambling the streets of the Brandenburg suburb of Görden looking for a bank machine. It’s a sleepy spot, seemingly populated exclusively by old people. A confused looking elderly lady stopped me, wondering how to continue along the segment of footpath that was being ripped up by unenthusiastic and, frankly, inbred-looking workmen. She seemed dubious when I told her to simply walk around it on the road, for a moment appearing much more willing to wait for the inbreds to whip up enough enthusiasm to get it finished than to risk such a dangerous break from the accepted norm in Görden. Despite this, I felt something of a connection with the old bird, probably because of her hairy face reminding me of hairy-faced old ladies back home, so I asked her where the nearest bank machine was. There used to be one, she informed me, before they took it away. They take everything away. She seemed inclined to stay and chat, telling me that I should probably take the strassenbahn into Brandenburg, where presumably they haven’t got around to taking everything away yet. I thought that it was pretty funny that she seemed to be lamenting the changes in her neighbourhood, by complaining about the removal of a pretty recent addition to it.

I decided against taking her advice. The ancient strassenbahn trundled by, outpacing me briefly before coughing to a halt at a deserted platform where no-one got on and no-one got off. This place is bleak. At least there’s a bank machine up ahead, with a bank machine in it. What was that crazy old bat talking about?

As I waited back in the centre of Brandenburg for my connection train to Berlin, I observed a large man standing facing a wall with his enormous jeans around his knees. His red boxers were visibly wet and his clinking bag of empty beer bottles advertised the severity of his plight. It’s not even 10am yet, and his day is shaping up to be a pretty bad one.

This place is strange. But I like it. Just 39 days of this course left.

I love eclipses. They appeal to the pagan in me. Can you call paganism a religion? If you can, it's the only religion that makes sense to me - the idea of worshipping something tangible, visible and life-giving seems like a better idea than worshipping some bearded guy in the sky who'll stick hot pokers up your ass for all eternity if you're not nice.

Near to where I grew up in Ireland, there are a number of tombs dating back to Ireland’s pre-Christian times. They fascinate me. The most famous, Newgrange (and many others) are designed in a such a way that the rising sun on Winter Solstice shines in the entrance and down the passageway, illuminating the burial chamber deep within the mound where the remains would have been before they were removed to prevent trampling by the hoards of tourists who are attracted by the promise of a nearby interpretative centre and café. Many of these tombs are thought to deliberately represent the female reproductive system, which one can clearly see when viewing the elevation plan. Isn’t that wonderful? Building shrines to things that we know give life?

Anyway, the eclipse. Of course, scientific explanation, yah yah yah. I much prefer to imagine back then, about 5,000 years ago, before the pyramids, before Stonehenge and iPods, when an eclipse was taken as a message from the gods. How could it have been seen any other way when the world is suddenly plunged into darkness in the middle of the day? Or, like last Saturday, when the moon turns red?
I was so excited about it, and was in Görlitzer Park with Frida twenty minutes before it was due, hoping that the day-long cloud cover would bugger off for long enough for me to catch a glimpse of it. No such luck though, we saw nothing. Apparently back in Ireland they had lovely clear skies and a great view of the whole spectacle.
I’d like to think that some urn containing ashes in some museum in Ireland shuddered a little at the anger of the gods.

http://www.newgrangeireland.com/

Tuesday was Pancake Tuesday, still an annual fixture in my calendar. This year was the most pathetic turnout yet, a very sad reflection on my increasingly reclusive nature.

Depressingly, I just ended up drinking too much and staying up pretty much all night, chatting with another heavy drinker, having long since frightened off the visitors who were brave enough to venture along.

We really drink far too much when we get together, me and this guy. He lives in Czech Rep at the moment, but is thinking of moving back to Berlin soon. We shall both really need to re-evaluate the basis of our friendship if he does. The strange thing is that it’s completely unnecessary – the drinking that is, not the friendship. My best times with him were sober ones, it’s just that we have more fun when there’s a few beers involved.

We also behave completely differently when we’re around other people. I think we both feel that we have to be the entertainers, with the result that we just get more and more outlandish in pushing the barriers of acceptable conversation.

Hmm. I don’t know.

In an attempt to drink respectably we had a beer-tasting session tonight. Unfortunately, I had no input into the purchasing, and my two buddies let the guy in the shop pick out most of the beers for them. Unfortunately, the beer-guy had shocking taste in beer, burdening us with a phenomenal selection of the sweetest and most repugnant beers I have ever tasted. One after the other tasted like someone had just dumped a bowl of sugar into it, leaving behind it the most disgusting aftertaste possible. Oh for a nice Guinness…

Since the woman was due back from her international punk rock tour of Europe today and I hadn’t heard from her since Saturday, I was pretty worried, even bearing in mind the overwhelming possibility that there was a perfectly normal solution, such as a lost/broken/dead phone.

I just had a strange feeling that something was up and couldn’t quite put my finger on it. It got worse as the day went on, and only for a buddy being around to keep me rational, I would have been totally frantic by the time she eventually got around to calling in the evening. Such a relief.

I was so excited at the prospect of seeing her again that I failed to understand very simple instructions, with the result that she was left waiting for me at Kottbusser Tor as I bounced around the platform at Hermannplatz, counting down the minutes to the next train that I was convinced she was on. Eventually we managed to co-ordinate ourselves, and seeing her immediately washed away the miserable alcoholism of the last week.

Both being particularly against public displays of affection, we had an unusual trip home, itching to get inside the door to properly say hello.

All feelings of impending doom unfounded and banished.