Der Himmel über Berlin

Look what arrived in my apartment yesterday. Once of my housemates foolishly picked it up for free, thinking that we might be able to use it.

It's a microwave from 1987, and it is HUGE. It's bigger than our cooker (which may or may not now reek of plastic after a slight accident during an otherwise flawless Irish Stew Evening) and takes up the majority of the kitchen. The beer bottle is there to give you an idea of proportion. Not just because they they are bloody everywhere.

And as if the size, lack of a rotating plate and risk of immediate cancer wasn't great enough, it's called COOKTRONIC. Isn't that marvellous? Makes me feel sad for spending most of the Eighties pooping my pants rather than appreciating the nerdy greatness that was all around me.

I half expected the instruction manual to be in Esperanto.

Tonight I am cooking an Irish stew for my housemates.

I am really nervous about it.

I am a very poor cook. I don't enjoy the process whatsoever, and end up getting very stressed out. It's the multitasking. How the hell am I expected to peel this and chop that, while simultaneously making sure that this and that aren't burning, and then co-ordinate everything so that it is ready at the same time? Nightmare. Bloody nightmare. I simply do not know how you cooks can do it, and enjoy it and make it look easy as well.

Still, a stew is pretty easy. Just chop everything up, horse it into a pot, bung it in the oven, have a few sneaky beers for an hour or so, pull it out, consume. Easy.

But I think the worst thing of all about cooking for people is that that someone always, always feels bound to compliment whatever tragic slop you have mushed onto their plate. They know it's rancid, I know it's rancid, not even the dog will eat it but they are still going to smile and tell me it's lovely, and maybe even ask me for the recipe. Mortification all round.

So, if you hear in the news tomorrow morning that an Irishman and three Germans died in a horrible poisoning accident, at least you will know that they died politely complimenting the orchestrator of their demise.

May we roast in peace.

When in the pub last Friday night in Ireland, my buddy's girlfriend arrived when we were already a few beers in. I hadn't seen her for several years, since shortly after I moved to Germany, I think.

'Stephen! You look so German!' was the first thing she declared upon seeing me.

So of course I had to investigate this a little more, and find out in what way exactly I look German.

First, clothes.
-Grey cardigan (much sexier than it sounds, I can assure you), purchased in Ireland last November.
-Navy t-shirt, purchased in Ireland many, many years ago. It's got the Batmobile on it, which I somehow didn't notice for several years.
-Scruffy jeans, purchased in Ireland last summer.
-Brown and tartan shoes (greatest shoes ever, for the record), purchased in Berlin last October.

Even my socks and undies were bought in Ireland. So, unless I my shoes are the most German things ever, I don't think my clothes can be responsible for how German I allegedly look.

Next, general appearance.
I was a little scruffy and beardy, Ryanair don't allow razors in hand luggage so I hadn't shaved for a while. Nothing particularly German about that, as far as I am concerned.
The curls were there too, of course, but I don't think there's any specific nationality that they could remind one of.

So eventually we concluded that it must be my hand movements that make me seem all continental. It's odd, I never actually noticed that I gesticulate a lot. Immediately I became very conscious of it, which made me swerve wildly between sweeping, over-the-top movements and wanting to sit on my hands.

So the problem is that this is not something that you can examine yourself - as soon as you are conscious of it, you stop behaving naturally.

You know what's coming next.

Next time anyone sees me, I want you to examine my hand gestures. Just don't tell me you're doing it. Hopefully I'll forget all about this post, and we can once and for all determine if I am a fruity, gesturing European or a tacitun, clammed-up Mick.

I spent the weekend on the island, and it was marvellous. The folks even came to meet me at the airport for the first time in several years. Much more Prodigal than Wannabe-German Ingrate, how lovely.

There were heavy doses of family time. I think the three of us were suffering from withdrawal - my sister usually pops home every couple of weeks, but less often when she is on the other side of the planet. Having not spend Christmas together, we were making up for lost time. There were a couple of rambles through the fields with the new dogs, who delighted in floundering through all the mud drains they could find and then greeting my dad or I in much more enthusiastic fashion than usual. There is nothing as as friendly as a wet dog, he wisely informed me. They are greyhounds, and will need racing names as soon as they depart the muddy joys of puppydom. My mother, as this blog's newest fan, suggested Rampage. Such an honour.

There was also the aforeblogged christening of Baby Charlie, which was a good deal more fun than I had expected. I had forgotten that all Irish social gatherings involve copious amounts of booze, but was only too pleased to adhere to tradition. Tradition which also included lots and lots of food, which I happily piled in on top of the day's hangover, full Irish breakfast and steak for lunch. My mother alleges that I am too skinny, and is on a one-woman crusade to fatten me up. There's even another picture of yours truly with a baby. How shocking.

Yes, I think last weekend, despite my sister's absence, was one of my most enjoyable in Ireland for quite a few years.

I would be lying if I said that I didn't have a minor crisis after this post. Just the idea of me liking a baby seems so completely inconceivable that it made me fear that I may be doing something I have been scrupulously avoiding over the last years. Growing up, becoming an adult, developing human emotions - whatever you call it, it sounds nasty and something that should be a given a very wide berth.

So when my mother informed me that my brief return to the island will coincide with the baptism, christening, something of my newborn first cousin once removed (yes, really), it forced me to confront this baby issue once more. Of course I'll have to bring some sort of baby-appropriate gift back, even though my tendency would have been just to promise to get him a hooker and drunk on his sixteenth birthday, but that's a present that the parents are better off not knowing about.

So I enlisted the help of a female friend for the baby shopping expedition, one who seemed highly qualified for the role due to her having an infant sister and being slightly insane. I wanted something with Berlin written on it, or at least something that would make little Baby... shit, what is his name? Shit, is he even a he? Anyway, something that would make it think of its favourite first cousin once removed* * every time he looks at it.

So off we set, and I am incredibly pleased to report that the baby shop nearly made me vomit. Does everything really need to be so disgustingly cute? Isn't there any market for baby clothes that aren't sky blue or pink, and don't have horrible cute little teddybears plastered all over them? Is there anything to be said for a range of baby-suitable alcoholic beverages? How about baby tattoos? Or little cute nose piercings? I'd get them, for sure.

Anyway, we decided on a stripey jumpsuit thingy with a cute monster on it, but he did appear to have a glint in his eye that suggested he wouldn't be opposed to a bit of monster-like pillaging if the opportunity arose. With that, a very minute pair of shoes with footballs on them, and a hat that looks far too big. Babies do have really big heads though, so it should be fine.

As I was paying, the cashier told me that there's a thirty-day refund policy. Never mind, I responded hilariously, they're not for me anyway.

* anyone who wants to leave this post believing the title, DO NOT click on the 'Read more' below.
* *wouldn't I be his first cousin once added?

Read more!

This wintry weather is getting to me, and it took my credit card bill to realise how much.

My desire to not be in this weather is so strong that I have booked no less than three weekends away in the time since I returned from India. The latest is a trip to Latvia in LATE BLOODY JUNE. This clearly means that my escapism is utterly lacking in logic. Why would I want to leave here in late June? It's going to be bloody GLORIOUS here then. In Latvia there'll probably still be snow, and yetis hungrily rambling the street, having long since licked dry the bones of the last unlucky survivors of the devil winter that was 2009.

Further evidence of my impulsiveness: my trip to Ireland next weekend. Yes, I know, I will be gaining about ten degrees, but I will also be gaining about ten times more precipitation. My recent phone calls to the island have revealed that it is currently lying deep in depression, and for once it's not just February that is to blame.

So, my conclusion is that there is NO ESCAPE. I will be stranded in snow and sub-zero temperatures for the next month at least. Probably even more - we had snow in late March last year. Just need to learn how to not take my frustrations out on my poor credit card. He's almost had it. The bastard. Should put him out in the snow to shut him up. Whiny little fecker.

Right. I am just going outside, and may be some time.

...who made my day. You know who you are.

Not sure about the panda eyes though...

Last night some friends that I was dining with hit me with a very intriguing and time consuming conundrum.

What three words would you use to describe yourself?

Obviously, the first three that popped into my head almost immediately were fantastic, sexy and wonderful.

But then I thought I should think about it a little more.

And I think I have finally decided on my three.

1. Self-aware. I think I know myself pretty well and consider self-awareness to be just about the most important quality in a person. If you don't truly know yourself, you can never really be comfortable with yourself and all your vices and virtues.

2. Uncomplicated. My life is simple and it's going to stay that way. People or things that complicate my life usually don't last very long in it. I also think I rarely complicate the lives of others around me (ha, although there are a few people in my past who would probably strongly disagree with that...).

3. Intense. I am a little surprised with myself for choosing this one. Intense, to me, has a slightly negative connotation - it sometimes implies that someone is a little too much to handle. I still think it applies to me though, in the sense that if I have an opinion on something, it is generally a very intense one. I use superlatives a lot, and frequently deal in absolutes, declaring things to be 'the best/worst thing ever'. I also think I form intense friendships too - people can sometimes be surprised by how much I am willing to sacrifice for them after a short space of time, and how much I am willing to go out of my way to help them. So in this way it also encompasses loyalty, which is also very important to me. And even though it is very rare, when I love someone, it runs very deeply indeed.

So there's my three. I would be very interested in hearing yours.

I am 100% Irish.

Well, as far back as anyone in my family knows, that is. Even the family name is very Irish, unlike numerous Irish names which come from the Normans (Fitzsimons or Roche, for example). There's a family story that my grandfather emigrated to the States sometime around the turn of the century, but didn't like it and came back. Not enough spuds maybe, I don't know. Having run out of money, he had to walk home from Cork. Quite a trek, by all accounts.

But that's it. That is the only bit of international interaction that took place, apart from a few forays to Canada on my mother's side.

This is why I like meeting Americans. I love to hear about where all their folks came from, what amazing combination of nationalities conspired to create them, whether they have any contact with the homelands of their immigrant forefathers, whether they had languages passed down from generation to generation. Or whether they even care about all of the above, and just see themselves solely as Americans.

I also love it when I hear of couples from odd nationality combinations. I'm sure there's a Mongolian/Surinamese baby out there somewhere, and I am stinkingly jealous of him. I hope there's a nice Tongan woman waiting for me out there too. Or Burundian. Or Kyrgyzstani. Anyone know any?

Strange thing is though, as attracted as I am by what I see as the romanticism of ethnic diversity, many of these people are as intruiged by my racial 'purity' (just to reassure you, I shuddered a little when I wrote that...) as I am by their lack of it, and I don't see why. My Irishness hasn't given me any particular sense of 'belonging' anywhere, and has probably allowed me to take my nationality for granted compared to someone whose ethnicity caused them to experience discrimination, thereby strengthening or weakening their idea of themselves as member of a particular race.

And thoroughbreds are generally stupider than mongrels. Caninely speaking, anyway.

Erm, that's all.

Although my life has doubtlessly been exponentially improved by living in Europe over the last five years and even though I rarely, if ever miss Ireland, there is one thing in particular that really bothers me about my European life.

How the bloody hell does a mucksavage who crawled out of a boghole just a few short years ago greet all these refined, classy and elegant Europeans with their elaborate cheek-kissing and embraces and *shudder* etiquette? Where I grew up, such overt displays of affection and politeness were unheard of, and the most complicated acknowledgment of someone's arrival would generally be a gruff 'howzit goin'?' if you were lucky, and a thump on the shoulder if you weren't.

Now though, I am faced with a dilemma every time I meet an acquaintance. Do they expect a handshake? Or a hug? A single kiss on the cheek, or two? Or even three? I usually take an informed guess, and end up making a twit of myself. I go for the second kiss on the Italian who only expected one, so I end up nosebutting her in the eye. I go for the handshake with the Brit who is leaning in for the hug and subsequently feels awkward around the reticent Mick.

The females are to blame for this, with their affection and emotions and whatnot. With my male friends, it is easy. A quick manly handshake and then we can get on with the important business of talking about football and drinking beer and pretending we don't like each other. You can't shake hands with a female though. Far too formal. You have to be all polite and happy to see them. Draining, the whole thing.

Jeez, writing this makes me wonder how the bloody hell I managed to make any friends to have this problem in the first place.

Last night, I was over in a friend's house. Since it was the first time I had been there, I spent the first ten minutes of my visit quite rudely ignoring everyone and examining the world map in their kitchen, trying to figure out what year it had been made in. This is usually not that difficult to do, considering how often borders and names change. Naturally enough, I took a barrage of abuse for this exceptionally nerdy behaviour. It was probably deserved, but still, I will not apologise for how much I love maps.

We also have a world map in our kitchen, right by the table. Every morning it brings on a number of crises - existential due to the sheer size of this bloody place and financial due to my desire to go to places that are far away, to mention but two. It's making me an (even bigger) fan of Europe - so much greatness in such a small area. We're so space efficient. I bet the Americans and Australians are very jealous that they only have nothingness in the middle of their continents, but we have Liechtenstein.

I also have two Germany maps in my bedroom, one large and one small, a map of Genoa and maps of the Tatra mountains in Poland and the southern Scottish Highlands. As soon as I can afford it, I intend to buy a huge laminated satellite map of Berlin that I noticed in a nearby shop - positively the maplover's wet dream.

I think I had a point when I started this post, but now I can't remember it.

I love maps. That was probably it.

I have been meaning to make this post for well over a year now, ever since my sister give me a home-made calendar of various family pictures for my birthday. Certainly the best birthday present ever, pity it only lasted for a year.

My first birthday, I hope it's obvious that I am the little one on the right and not the one with the red bow

The genius is unleashed - my first day at school

I believe this one was taken at Halloween. Yes, I do have a pair of tights containing two rolled-up newspapers on my head.

I grew up in rural Ireland, and we had our own vegetable garden. I did not, however, fish for trout. Why would you need to with mutant spuds like that?

This is me in my awkward teenage phase. If it wasn't football or computer game-related, I simply wasn't interested. Sadly, this is still partly true for the 'adult' me.

I am feeling India resentment at the moment. It is to blame for the absolute lack of blogging inspiration that I am going through - while I was there, I saw something wonderful every two minutes. Back in grey and dreary Berlin, nothing is interesting enough to blog. Coming from the guy who has in the past blogged about things as thrilling as grammar, train tickets and Ikea, that is really something.

I am following Britain's descent into anarchy because of the snow though, with quite a lot of interest. I don't believe for a second that the infrastructure is so weak that buses and trains simply cannot run. No, it is simply the February Malaise. I don't have any desire to work, and I doubt many other people do either. So when a nice convenient excuse arises not to work, of course you are going to take it. Could it be that it is simply charity on the part of the decision-makers, allowing everyone to have an easy excuse not to get to work? I think so.

Other news, hmm. I am going to Berlin's Transport Museum today. A friend and I recently realised, even though we have both been here around three years, that we have not visited most of the many wonderful museums this town has to offer. We are also planning a trip downstairs into Berlin's large system of underground passages designed by those nasty men in uniforms in the thirties and forties. One of them goes so deep underground that you need to have mountaineering experience, so that is definitely the one for us.

I have also applied for a new job, as an exam invigilator. I will have the power to make or break people's lives. Little do they know that it will depend greatly on how much cleavage they show. Ha!*

Fucking hell, is this content worthy of four Bloscar nominations? No, no it simply isn't. C'mon inspiration, bludgeon me with your bloggy goodness!

*For the record, I am extremely professional when it comes to education. I have never in my life been swayed by the presence or absence of cleavage. Apart from that one time with the....Never. Not even once.