Ich bin ein Berliner

Pigeon-holing German

2009-02-27T08:08:00.000-08:00

French is the language of love.

Italian is the language of music.

English is the language of international business.

But what about German? To what do the guttural, staccatoed sounds of Deutsch lend itself?

There is something that is special in German. The language enables the emergence of beauty, eloquence and truth to reveal itself on every street, in every town, and on every night, much to the envy of nations outside:

The public declarations of discontentment by the crazy drunk man.

No angry ravings sound as perfectly formed as with German. The vague vitriol that these inebriated tenors sing out, at the top of their lungs, to the world is unparalleled.

The clarity with which Berlin’s street philosophers express their ideas is also laudable. Every sheiße and denunciation is beautifully annunciated. And, with a passion that is rare to find in most Germans.

It is perhaps an area where our teutonic friends hold a clear cultural competitive advantage. I advice all of Eurpe's cultivated to come and explore this unexplored and hitherto unappreciated art form.

The importance of clear diction

2009-02-18T06:49:00.000-08:00

Usually, after a drink or a meal, I ask for the “Die Rechnung, bitte” – the bill. However, saying something simple in a language can be done in several fashions, so I have decided to change my ways, and introduce a new word into my street vocabulary.

I vowed to ask for the “bezahlen” (to pay) in the future.

The problem with languages, though, is if you are a bear of little brain, you become easily confused. Such a lapse was highlighted after a particular lively and rather fruity German conversational class, in which I was introduced to a new word: stillen.

My mind, being the broken wreak of a thing that it is, then asked “Kann ich bitte bestillen”.

My waitress stopped in her tracks and gave me a steely look. What? I though, I’ve only had a few, a few more than I intended, I grant, but I’m a innocent, baby-faced kind of guy. I wouldn’t do anything wrong.

The only problem is, that “stillen” means to breastfeed.

The march of the Nu-Nus

2009-02-16T02:53:00.000-08:00

To those of us who still feel like five-year olds, and are mentally trapped in the ephemeral topicals of days gone by, the Berlin anti-snow authorities hold a special place in our collective, tiny hearts.

But, much to my surprise and secret joy, I was nearly run-down and killed by a deranged Nu Nu on my walk to work this morning.

Of course, the Germans being German, five weeks before the snows began, the streets were covered in grit (which they have in abundance here – all that “planning” they do) and the roads were constantly combed by large snow mobiles.

Yet even the capillaries of the German transport network are also serviced. Every little street around my area has been swept, shovelled and snorted by these little Nu Nus, ensuring that all pedestrians are liable only to suffer mild breakages on their way to the shops.

Of course, the main feature of these ditsy machines is how fun they look, or, at least, to drive. The driver certainly enjoyed himself today, as he slowly attempted to run me down, or suck me up his dexterous trunk.

Naughty Nu Nu!
[Does anyone else feel that Dipsy is putting on an unusually masculine pose on this one?]

Gruene Gruetze

2009-02-03T13:54:00.000-08:00

German food.

What can you say. They don't mess about over here. No poncing about with any of that fancy "presentation" mallarky. Just stuff it down, quickly now, Dieter.

I am assuming that, continuing in this vein, the manufacturer's simply called this unique delicacy "green guts". Saying all that, it didn't taste bad, but...

...really now?

Going first class

2009-02-01T13:51:00.000-08:00

I have happy memories of first class travel.

My previous such journey was enjoyed between London and Edinburgh. Because of a delightful quirk of the train operator’s usually enraging computer, a first class ticket northwards was remarkably cheap.

Upon seating myself in my sofa, my attractive hostess offered me some food.

“No thanks” said I

“It’s free” said she.

“Pile it on” said I.

Later on, she returned from her angelic duties to offer me a drink.

“Tea or coffee?”

“Er…”

“It’s free.”

“Mine’s a gin and tonic.”

Occasionally, her increasingly heavenly form would return to endow me with top-ups, or chocolates, or whatever it was my fluttering heart desired.

By the time I reached Scotland, walking was a serious problem, but the cloud of joy and contentment that I floated upon was ungroundable.

So, when the Deutsche Bahn suffered the same electronic blip, my expectations soared. German trains are the masters of Europe, far superior to any clapped out old chugger the British can produce. First class travel in Germany will be like travelling with Louis XVI.

Oh my brothers, how wrong I was.

Invited on to a 1970s, flea-bitten carriage, I surveyed the grey and red stripped seats with some trepidation. A five hour journey spanned before me, was this décor tolerable for such a length of time? Could any man be expected to survive these conditions?

Never mind, thought I, I would deploy the patented Flying Scotsman technique, and a cheery myopia of delirium tremens would mask the ugliness about me. However, being English, I decided that, given the hour, a tea was an immediate necessity.

A women, led-footed and led by her rolling shoulders, hobbled towards me.

“Yes?” Said she, not the jolly greeting that I expected, but presentation has never been Germany’s strongpoint.

“A tea, please!”

“Yes.” The creature hobbled away to some lair to concoct a brew.

I peered out the window. I was strangely cold. Surely…surely I cannot be feeling a draft. A draft? In Germany? Yes, my brothers, a draft indeed: on the German transport system. My reliable English scarf was recalled from its slumbers, and brought back into duty.

Egor returned with the refreshing, warming potion not a moment too soon. Well, she probably could have returned a little sooner, had her legs been the same length.

“Here. Tea.”

“Why thank you kindly, my dear…woman.”

“That’ll be €3.50.”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t quite hear you. Something ridiculous drowned out your previous remark.”

But it was true. A stingy, lukewarm, rubbishy German tea sat before me, slopping over the rim such was the ancient locomotive’s gait, as my innards numbed themselves, leaving only an ill-prepared shell of skin and shock to absorb the full horror the situation.

No. There was to be no free tea. No free hours of boozing. No leisurely journey. Not only was first class only distinguishable from the other compartments through its rancid livery, but it also inflicted upon its prisoners the most expensive cuppa west of Tokyo.

Alone, frozen, hungry and disturbingly sober, the appalling truth of the next hours discomfort and boredom began to sink in like the cold tea stains into my thin English trousers. Never go anyway in Germany again.

Silvesternacht insanity

2009-01-06T12:39:00.000-08:00

There are many times in my life, where words have failed me. It’s not as if there isn’t ample opportunity to pontificate freely on whatever freely floats into my ill-considered little mind. The problem is one of semantics – language disconnects experience from sematics, there are sometimes no adequate words to convey the strength of the feeling.

So, if you will indulge me, I would like us to, temporarily, with do away with words and punctuation, and ask you to imagine, if you can, fear. True gripping, overwhelming fear.

Hold that emotion in your mind for a moment. Swirl it around your mind, and allow the tremerous evocations to lap over your reasoned and sane mind, and let deranged, babbling terror take over.

Well then. You are now in the correct mindset to appreciate an Auslander’s impression of the German New Year celebrations.

Weirdly, 2009 started off with a Spanish tradition. Being in the company of Madridans, I was required to stuff an unlikely amount of grapes into my mouth within an unlikely timeframe. After the whole business of the pips, the timing and the appalling state of the champagne situation, if was time to head out and face the world. Feeling sufficiently queasy after my Spanish indulgences, I decided to lead the way onto the street below.

Now, this is where the above fear training has come in handy.

Upon opening the door from my apartment to the street, I bumped into a man. A man holding a firework in his hand. A lit, primed and ready firework. He was holding enough explosives to blow his arm off, and he was standing three feet away from me. He considered me gormlessly as I tried not evacuate.

The madness that followed will be a unique experience in my life. I sincerely hope.

Every family, from every house was on the street. And they were armed. Fathers let off fireworks, with pleasing horizontal trajectories reminded me rather of Exocet missiles, at least they did after I picked myself up from cowering on the floor. Small children chucked out fizzing grenades. And mothers considerately met you in the eye before they threw deafening, terrifying death-crackers at your feet.

The run, from my house to the underground train station was an adrenaline fuelled gauntlet through roaring explosions, a fog of blinding gunsmoke and crowds of weirdly calm people.

The sure power of the experience was overwhelming. The noise, The smell, the dizzying quantity of explosions about me was simply too much to take in. It was as if every last Berliner, coolly and meditatively filled their houses with gas; set their hair on fire and jumped in.

Anyway, I survived. The fireworks continued at the same Somme-like intensity until three in the morning. Germans: utterly, utterly crazy.

Differences between the South and North

2008-12-29T08:52:00.000-08:00

As with most countries, there is a North South divide in Germany. Generally, the South is better than the North. The North, in all the best countries, is composed of wild, impoverished yurt-herders, capable only of monosyllabic grunts whilst stumbling towards the nearest kebab van.

Although some of these elements are applicable to Germany, it’s much harder to determine which of the country’s two compass points is preferable. Unlike everywhere else.

The North, or, at least, what I’ve seen of it, which consists of some months in apparently “different” Berlin and flashed past the window whilst bombing it Southwards from Denmark as my mother’s navigational skills accidentally landed us in the wrong country on a family holiday, appears to be a civilised sort of place.

As does the South.

Which leaves a key indicator of evaluation useless.

However, I did notice some other, less relevant factors:

1. The people in the south are nicer. (This is a reversal of the UK’s orientation; but you must remember “nicer” does not mean “better”. In fact, normally the opposite is true.) Unlike in Berlin, people do not stare at you. When Southerners do occasionally make eye-contact they do not continue their intimidating glare, but break out into a smile, and may even add a cheery “Groß Gut” (German for “alrite, ducks”).

2. The people in the South say goodbye properly. Since I arrived in Germany, no one has once said “Auf Wiedersehen”. Instead, Berliners prefer the more informal “tschüss” or, almost sickingly, “ciao”. Then, all of a sudden, all these Bavarians chirp out the formal farewell. I thought they were all Geordies.

3. The shops are completely different. True, that.

4. The beer all has different names, but, despite the completely different labelling and different brewery, tastes much like beer in the North.

5. The sun always shines in the South. It’s much like England in that way.

Now I’m home

2008-12-27T09:19:00.000-08:00

I’m back in Berlin now, after Christmasing in Bavaria. I knew that I had arrived, because I saw a bloke pissing near the tracks as my train pulled into Berlin Central Station. This was not a site often enjoyed in the South.

Many tourist books point out Berlin’s famous “pissing man”. This ubiquitous feature has filled Berlin’s landscape with pleasant surprises in even the most unexpected place.

A crisp winter’s walk through the Teirgarten is usually a tedious landscape of trees, cluttered amongst the over-natural greenery. However, with the addition of a kindly reveller from last night’s excesses to volunteer his pleasing silhouette to augment your appreciation of the prospect, and your view is improved markedly.

Indeed, my first memory, and perhaps most lingering, if unwanted, reminiscence will be of a distinguished looking gentleman, relieving himself of the cares of the modern world, but, unfortunately for me, he decided to do so whilst pointing in the wrong direction.

Nazi memorials, imperial monoliths and the fine architecture of a dozen inspired generations will fade into a distant pang compared to the intense horror that this image has singed onto my mind.

Berlin’s urban environment is rich with detail: every corner, ever nook and especially every cranny is splashed with intricate gold-gilted fountains. It’s almost as if as these civic-minded men act as the finishing touches to the city austere clothing, they’re the delicate filigree, the accessories of the Berlin’s dry ensemble.

But I do wish they wouldn’t accessorise in front of me.

Germans going crazy at Christmas

2008-12-14T11:20:00.000-08:00

The Germans are a restrained bunch. They are not ones for going over the top.

Celebrations come and go, there is no reason to go over-board. They'll be plenty more to come, Fritz, calm yourself.

This is the usual Germanic response to events that any self-respecting

Midetarranean would go balastic at.

No. The Germans are a cool lot. Most of the time, that is.

At Christmas, however, Germans go absolutely mental.

As I calmly walked out of my apartment yesterday, I found that, not only had the entire local constabulary closed the street to traffic, but my quiet little road had been converted into a biker’s Christmas procession.

The confluence of Christmas, music, bikers and the distant reassurance of half the Berlin police force, brought out a fervor in the Germans that I am never likely to witness again.

Do Germans sleep?

2008-12-09T01:34:00.000-08:00

It’s annoying to find out how cool Germans are. That most parties here don’t get going until 12 is cool. That the last two weekends, I have got back into bed about seven, however, is not so cool.

The Germans are amused, if a little amazed, at the English night out. In the pub at six, out by 11 and in bed by 12. Then, it’s Ikea first thing the next morning.

With the English approach, German evenings can be exhausting. You’re practiced at getting in as many pints as possible before closing time; the speed ensures you that are you are suitably inebriated and fired up for the fighting that follows.

Now, in Berlin, you have to sit around for hours and hours. Talking. It’s as if they enjoy each other’s company.

But, this general nighttime longevity does not stop at painting the town red. Sunday night, eleven o’clock. Any sane, normal civilisation would be thinking about bed and getting ready for the start of the working week.

Not the Germans. The Germans would invite their friends around for Glühwein and biscuits. The Germans would stay until 2 o’clock in the morning, discussing society and its ills.

Then, they get up at six am, run three laps of the nearest racing course and have three bowls of muesli before work at eight.

Whereas the rest of us are staggering around the office, downing coffee and pleading for an easy death.

London Strikes!

2008-12-03T09:39:00.000-08:00

What's this? What's this? What's this?

"Potatoes"

2008-11-30T09:37:00.000-08:00

I found more maripan potatoes.

They look suspect, don't they?

Amazing German engineering

2008-11-30T09:33:00.000-08:00

Look at this picture.

The bread and salami are made by different producers. And yet, they fit together perfectly.

PERFECTLY.

This is the wonder of German engineering.

How to connect with Germans

2008-10-29T04:07:00.000-07:00

The British probably consider the Germans their closest friends in Europe. The Scandinavians are boring, the Mediterraneans are bonkers and the French come from France.

But the Germans hold a special place in our hearts. They like sausage and beer. So do we. They like football hooliganism. So do we. They also enjoy a large section of society that sits about, drinking at all hours, contributing nothing but strong opinions and hearty odours. Which is excellent; these are all things we can relate to.

They also achieve feats that the British can only dream of. The transport system works: respect. The donor kebabs don’t poison you: respect. Their politicians never force you to endure their perfect, wretched little families: respect.

So, it was with these shared bonds, that one can easily engage in cultural diplomacy.

If you are seeking to forge a relationship with a German, you might consider using the following areas of shared experience:

1) Ask them what colour they turn when they take their shirts off whilst drinking lagers during a barbeque. I bet it’ll be the same colour as you, matey.

2) Ask them how they feel when they witness a fellow citizen, contravene the rules slightly when you have obeyed the clearly visible signs perfectly. (Although the Germans tend to be a little more militant on this one. They are liable to send photographic or video evidence of the observed misdemeanour to the relevant authorities; whereas the Brits will just bleat on about it for days.)

3) Ask them what they think of random people approaching them in the street. “They’re mad, or after something, in any case, I quicken my pace and slither off.” It’s just like being in London again, isn’t it?

4) What’s the maximum acceptable size for a sausage? A German simply won’t understand this question. Thus earning your admiration and esteem.

5) Lastly, ask them their opinion of noisy people. This is fertile ground when communing with the Germans. They’ll probably forget themselves here and launch upon a lengthy diatribe on “those noisy buggers”, whereupon it’s easy to join in with an occasional “Yeah” or a “Really? That’s terrible”. After the tirade is finished, and unbreakable bond between the nations is forged.

Homer Simpson's voice in German

2008-10-22T06:41:00.000-07:00

Shocking. Simply shocking.

The German toilet

2008-10-17T05:36:00.000-07:00

The German toilet is subject to much debate. For Germans, it’s a healthy hobby, for everyone else in the universe, it’s a evil, vile, truly terrible invention.

The German contribution to pan design was to include a small shelf, not but a few inches from the seat. From there, any, er, debris, can be collected and preserved in tact.

Upon a lengthy inspection, the object of interest can is flushed away via water from the rear, into a rank, dark lair beneath. We don’t like to think what lives under there.

http://asecular.com/ provides some useful diagrams:

Fig 1: Normal toilet

Fig 2: German toilet

There is a feeling, in the bemused international community, that the German approach belongs to other times. The Banterist gets to the bottom of the matter:

"The Poo-Shelf comes from a period in German history when Germans were less interested in world domination and apparently more interested in spending quality time with their faeces."

The problems with this design are manifold. The key insight of the “normal” toilet is that items are deposited into water, where they can do no harm to any one, forgotten and innocuous. Whereas, the German kazi does not coat our little brown friends in a neutralising water coat, but allows the ungodly smell to woft delightfully around the room.

One can only assume that the production of a German rear gives off a light, fragrant aroma.

Another issue is water pressure. Not enough and well, my friends, then you have a catastrophe. But, too much, reveals another problem for http://asecular.com/:

“The first time I flushed the toilet the water came rushing through so forcefully that a small chunk of poo launched off the lip and shot out over the floor. After that we always held the lid down when we flushed. I swore you could feel a kick as the turd ricoched off the underside”

Another potential issue has brought about a schism between men and women. The issue, as with most problem, is generally male. Once you place distance between a source of liquid and the most needlessly bouncy porcelain known to man, then you are in a world of splash-back pain.

Although the men were content to do their business in a refreshing mist of their own spray, the women organised. Signs started to appear around toilets.

No standing for you boys. Unfortunately, this movement has not passed my landlady un-noticed. It is a little difficult to the habit. And some men are beginning to fight back against their emasculation, and are standing up for their rights.

Although it is pleasing to see the Germans have moved on from their days of testosterone-fuelled militarism, it hard not to feel nostalgic for The Good Old Days.

It’s also hard not to feel nostalgic for a normal toilet.

Weird German foods: Marzipan Potato

2008-10-14T10:41:00.000-07:00

Ok. Great. We have a new feature.

The best thing about Going Abroad is sampling the weird food that they serve there. Germany, although its cuisine has a modest international reputation, is no less blessed with funny little idiosyncrasies.

My challenge is: find as much odd stuff as possible, and then consume it.

Occasionally, I may even enjoy something.

So, a cursory perusal of the vending machine at Treptower Park Station revealed some worthy curiosities. On this recent occasion, I opted for Marzipan Kartoffel – Marzipan Potato. The main attraction to this was the picture on the wrapper. Apparently, the packet was full of raw, muddied potatoes. The appeal is obvious.

Strangely enough, I was actually rather surprised when upon opening the packet, I was confronted by a small collection of tiny filthy potatoes.

“How revolting” thought I, as I poked at one.

However, the taste was rather disappointing. The small ball of marzipan potato, turned out to be just a rubbishy, rolled up ball of marzipan.

That was it. No raw vegetable. No dirt. Nothing. Just familiar, boring stodginess.

So, yes. Rubbishy. Not a weird experience to be repeated. On to the next one!

Crossing the road in Berlin

2008-10-12T15:05:00.000-07:00

If there’s a single, most terrifying thing that a Berliner will have to do (other than meeting a Frenchman) it’s crossing the road.

This fear is not entirely unfounded.

If you look at an average car, you will observe that it tends to have six gears. Reverse, naturlich, first gear, from there it skips up to fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh gears, whereupon the German feels the trumpets of the Valkyries, calling them to battle.

Germans don’t so much as drive, as mercilessly consume the road as if it were a huge juicy bratwurst. And once the salivating begins, a German wastes no time in quickly dispatching even the longest of sausage.

So, naturally, Berliners treat the road much in the same way that normal human beings view a forty million vault power cable.

Apparently, jay-walking is a crime. Whereas animal bestiality is not. This is the country in which I live.

Being a Londoner, I like to get on. I walk about half a mile an hour faster than everyone else. I run for trains. I am concerned about time. I rush. It came as an unexpected and frankly unwanted shock when I discovered that Germans are cooler than me.

Yet, one of the lingering legacies of these dudes’ heritage is their insistence of following petty regulations. There is nothing a German likes more than to point out a small failing of yours. Helpful words of advice I have heard have ranged from “you shouldn’t stand here” to the “you shouldn’t cross the road until the green man comes up.”

I calculate that I owe at least a thousand euros to the Deutschen Volke after my habitual jay-walking. And the locals certainly don’t appreciate it. Making decisions and judgements for yourself is not approved of.

On a Sunday morning, it is not uncommon to witness a huddled mass of orderly citizens patiently waiting by a silent road. You look left and right and up and down, the nearest moving car is about five miles away.

So, being foreign and therefore right, you cross over without thought or fuss, only to leave behind a rustle of disapproval, shock and occasional verbal insights, such as “you shouldn’t be doing that!”

These people, however, are beginning to infect me. I find myself stationary, gormlessly staring into nothingness, waiting for the state’s permission to cross the road.

Most infuriating, is that the green man is no guarantor of safety. There are no filter lights in Germany, so a BMW is still within his rights to turn left and mow you down like the filthy Englander you are. Apparently, if you get run over, you have to pay a fine.

Worse still, the paranoia is beginning to grow. After walking past two bored policeman, I absent mindedly took my life into my own hands by crossing the road, defying the red man’s wrath. Half way across, I realised I was committing this crime – equivalent to arson of public buildings – in full sight of the law.

The heart rate began to beat a little faster, the shuffle quickened, what would I do? The police will tell me off. What if the neighbours saw? What will happen to me if work finds out? I’ll be ostracised forever. I must fit in. I must obey.

And now, at last, I feel like a true German.

Ich bin turning into a giant sausage

2008-10-09T10:22:00.000-07:00

Sausages are a key component of a German’s bloodstream. If you open any Germany’s veins, you’ll see tiny little Bratwursts, swimming their little way towards key arteries.

The problem is sausages, in Germany, are ubiquitous and cheap, where I am hungry and a cheapskate. So, most evening’s after work, the little hot dog man, selling sausages for €1 a pop proves irresistible.

As you can see, there are good value for money – although awkward eating.

However, the bratwurst aren’t especially nice. They’re alright, but the sausages don’t dance erotic rumbas of joy inside your mouth. It’s just a normal, boring sausage.

I might be a bit provincial, but you certainly can’t beat a good, honest English sausage.

Although that doesn’t stop me from buying tonnes of the wriggly buggers. Damn you Germany for creating this addiction!

Public transport in Germany

2008-10-05T09:35:00.001-07:00

When you tell people that you are moving to Germany, they’ll inevitably wax lyrical about the German infrastructure - regardless of whether they have actually experienced it. If your interlocutor happens to be a Londoner, they’ll fall upon their knees and beg you to take them in your hand luggage.

So, obviously, I was quite looking forward to acquainting myself with the pride of Europe: The Berlin metro system.

And so, it was, as I stepped onto the platform of Shönefield Station, it was with some enthusiasm. Gone was the sleep deprivation, travel tiredness, and general trepidation at navigating myself about a strange city – I was consumed by the thrill known only to deranged train spotters.

So there, on Gleis 1, was the train that, I hoped, was going to take me to my destination. And, do you know what, within twenty minutes, it did just that. Without fuss or delay. Effortless transportation.

Like most flagship German institutions, it’s hard to remark on just how remarkable they are.

It’s efficient, but essentially boring. Which is exactly how it should be. In London, where the mass transit system is dysfunctional and sweaty, the only topic of conversation is the Tube.

However, the real shock was my discovering that no one was one the trains. And, if they were, it was relatively quiet, and you almost always could find a seat.

Even riding the S-Bahn through the centre of town during rush hour saw a relative sparseness – there’s no desperate climbing over other passengers here. There’s even enough room to enjoy a beer. Which is an activity that Berliners heartily indulge in – the reason for this will become clear.

Yet, this quietness is puzzling. I have pondered as to why this is the case. The trains are shorter and their carriages narrower than their London counterparts. Various theories have been put to me: the trains are very frequent; the bus service is good, etc. etc.

The truth is this: 20% of Berliners are unemployed. Rush hour is quiet because there’s bugger all people going to work at the morning. Now, the first service just after those lazy buggers have rolled out of their pit, however…

First day at work

2008-10-01T12:47:00.000-07:00

Monday heralded the first commute of my new working life. This brought new torments to a familiar drudge.

As I was shuffling nervously through the station, triple checking my route, and generally playing the part of a right tourist, I became the very thing that drove me around the bend in London: the bumbling platform hazard.

Then, as I became sure that the Berlin map did not require constant examination to prevent it from morphing, I began to look about me. Dodgy vending machines; bored commuters; irritatingly captivating adverts – the usual trappings of mass transit life.

Yet, the people, oddly, looked much as they did at any other time. As I began to look a little more closely, it seemed that everyone was in casual clothing. Any platform pointing towards the city centre at rush hour anywhere in the world should have smart, suited up, professional looking people preparing their organised minds for another day’s climbing the greasy pole.

But on Monday morning, I was, it seemed, the only person in Berlin wearing a tie.

So, I’m sure I scared the pants off the people that I worked with. I think most of them have forgotten how ties work.

Apparently, I am too neat for the Germans.

Anyway, more to come…

I'm in Berlin

2008-09-30T10:08:00.000-07:00

Landing in Berlin last Sunday was terribly exciting for me. It wasn’t just my arriving in a new country. I’ve been to lots of those before; most of them are rubbish.

But the source of my excitement was principally due to the German people. I was surrounded by Germans. Actual, real Germans. They were talking German at each other, looking at each other and generally regarding their countrymen with distant, Germanic familiarity.

The Germans are a funny lot. Treated generally as objects of derision, it’s hard to regard a German as an equal. Either you look up to their towering genius or down to their ridiculous po-faced demeanour. Either they’re a Goethe or a Goon.

It’ll take me a while to fully pin down these buggers, but there is some truth in both of these caricatures.

So far, I can only describe the Berliners. They are, much like Londoners, rude, self-absorbed and pushy on the street. So I am feeling at home already. It’s great to push old ladies out of my way on the train again.

More to follow…