Der Himmel über Berlin

I just undertook my first bike trip in Berlin.

It was pretty much my first time on a bike since leaving Ireland two years ago, two years which have not sufficed to heal the scars of cycling experiences in Ireland. Like the time an imbecile motorist suddenly opened his door in front of me as I was speeding along, sending me flying over the handlebars and only just missing cracking my helmetless head wide open. The stress that city cycling in Ireland had caused me, coupled with the shockingly good public transport in Berlin, meant that I didn't consider a bike to be a viable means of transport over here.

But this first cycle, from my apartment up to the blog offices, was the most exhilarating fun I have had in a long, long time. The motorists here have so much respect for cyclists - we are actually considered to be worthy users of the road, rather than an annoyance that needs to be barged out of the way. Some of the intersections were pretty frightening, full of honking Turks who didn't seem to have much more grasp of the rules of the road than I did. Despite this, I sped happily along, feeling more and more like a real Berliner with each obedient stop at traffic lights.

Made it in one piece though, already looking forward to the cycle home.

I have spent the last seven months waiting for the sun to come back, and now that it's here, it's annoying me. At first, it was a nice novelty - the balcony can be used, I can sit outside and drink beer, I can fantasise about all the lovely relaxing sun-based things that I'm going to do.

But that's all it's good for - relaxing activities. What about when you actually have to get stuff done? What about when you have to rush to sign up for your new German class, deal with the ubiquitous bureaucracy, then rush to the library to drop back the books that are due back today, realising that you have forgotten one, explain yourself to the librarian, then rush to work?

Sweat is what boody happens. Disgusting, smelly drips dropping off my forehead. And giving me horrible armpit sweatpatches. And making my crotch all damp (that's the worst of all). Normally, I'm not a particularly nice-smelling guy. I smell manly. But when it's sunny, I just smell fecking bad. Really bad. And I can't do anything about it. Urgh, and my feet sweat too; I hate feet even when they're not stinky, rancid sweat-paws. And it mats my lovely curly hair into a flat stinky mess.

Damn it, snow, I miss you!

Please do not invite me as a friend. I am not your friend. I will delete your worthless ass.

Yours,

Rampage.

I was away for two weeks doing English camps with whiny, noisy German kids. Despite the fact that I complain almost incessantly about having to do it, I actually quite enjoy it. Sometimes. Like when we don't have a room of warring blonde seven-year-olds who are always either crying or bitching. Or when there isn't a teenager who cuts herself and picks at her open wounds and shows them to everyone. Or when there isn't a twelve-year-old boy who calls me his boyfriend and is always touching me or putting his arm around me or just generally being way too close for comfort. Unfortunately, for the second week, I had to put up with all of these things.

On my return to Berlin, it felt strange to sit in the wonderful sun, drinking nice relaxing beer; I always felt that I should be somewhere, looking for kids or shouting at them to hurry up or slow down or stop that or do that. Also great was going to a wonderful loud punk band, drinking more beer and talking to adults about non-child related things. Unfortunately, the concert was gatecrashed by a group of criminally drunk Brits and Yanks, who proceeded to fall around the place, shouting and being the epitome of everything that makes it impossible for me to live at home.

Even managed to speak German the whole night, and learned the German word for self-flagellation (selbstkasteiung, if you must know). For me, the most fun thing about learning a language is collecting as much utterly useless vocabulary as possible. Like Streichholzschachtelchen (matchbox), which is unquestionably the most difficult word to pronounce in any language ever. Apart for statistician. I can't say that either.

Anyway. I'm back. And that makes me happy.