Beaman In Berlin

Selin: Night calls

2006-07-13T19:02:00.000+02:00

I usually like to leave the windows open at night during the hot summer months and yesterday was no exception. There is more often than not a little breeze which aids the process of sleeping in such muggy conditions. One might think that nothing at all negative could come about by leaving the windows wide open, being on the 3rd floor, during the darkened hours but there are a number. Well, two to be exact. Both are to do with sound.

The first is the rather loud and brutal snoring that resonates from one of the many windows surrounding the inner courtyard. The owner of the expressive night calls is obviously sleeping next to his open window. The walls echo with the gurgles and growls that would put the fear of god into any small child.

The second reason, is that of another strange sound, which is heard on average, once every hour or two and lasts for a few seconds. Whilst it does not prevent the action of falling asleep, like the snoring, it does tend to jolt one awake, even when in the deep recesses of the REM state of slumber. This particular noise is not only heard at night but also in the early morning, evening and every Sunday.

Last night was very hot and humid. The opened windows made little difference to the negligible flow of air running through my flat. I lay restless, turning over numerous times, trying to find a cooler part of the mattress on which to place my tired muscles. An hour went by, then another, in between I got up and drank water or stood looking out of the window, wondering if one day, I too would sound like a pregnant Water Buffalo in labour. Eventually, in the small hours, I managed to nod off. The visualisation I had used of sleeping upon ice cubes had done the trick but was soon to be ruined by a sudden occurance beyond my control.

I thought at first that there had been an explosion. My slumbered mind had been pulled powerfully out of the beginnings of a dream; confusion was paramount. A very loud rumbustious roar had seemingly rocked the floor and ceiling. I froze. Had there been an earthquake? The room was dark but I could still discern that the furniture and pictures on the wall were all still in their proper places. Nothing seemed devastated. I held my breath for a few seconds, peeling my ears back, listening for any hints as to what had caused the sudden noise. Nothing. Complete silence except for the faint snoring from outside. I got out of bed and wandered over to the window. There was no broken glass or rubble on the ground, nor were there any blackened stains on the walls where flames had left their mark. Everything was normal. I went into the kitchen and checked to see if the gas cooker had been left on. I then had to briefly console myself over my stupidity of forgetting that I actually had an electric cooker. Apart from the slight hum of the refrigerator, all was quiet. I checked the toilet. All normal in there too apart from the dripping shower nozzle.

It is said that sounds are magnified when in a state of semi-awakeness or dream sleep. Often in dreams, an outside sound is visualised as an explosion or a major accident when infact the sound might only have been a cat jumping off the bed. With this in mind, I yielded to the fact that I had most likely overreacted. Climbing back into bed, I thought nothing of it and soon fell asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Selin was born in 1976, to Turkish parents, in the Moabit district of Berlin. She lives alone in the flat below mine. Since childhood she has been afflicted with chronic flatulence which has so far been undiagnosed. Doctors first thought it was Irritable Bowel Syndrome but later ruled that out due to lack of other relating symptoms. Her mother also suffers from the condition without any negative repercussions, except occasional public embarrassment. Selin has become used to her unfortunate but largely uncontrollable habit and often is oblivious to the sound, much to the amusement of all who know her. She works as a secretary for an insurance company.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Günther: Secret Wedding

2006-07-08T14:15:00.000+02:00

Yesterday, a friend and I decided to visit the city of Potsdam, just west of Berlin. The day was extremely hot and very humid, our clothes stuck to us like damp linen in an almost unbearable fashion. Nevertheless we explored the various nooks and crannies of the Brandenburg capital with an aura of excitement and great interest.

The city has been the centre of many famous historical moments, including it's near destruction during the Thirty Years War, the birth of Hitler's Third Reich, the planning of the systematic destruction of European Jewry and the 'Potsdam Conference' where Churchill, Truman and Stalin met to decide the future of Post-war Germany. During the Soviet era, the city was neglected and many buildings pulled down due to bomb damage or because they were symbols of Prussian militarism, which did not sit well with the government of the GDR.

After a couple of beers and a fine meal, we headed to the Sanssouci Palace, the old summer residence of Frederick the Great. However, en route we were surprised to be stopped by a television camera crew, working for RBB (Berlin-Brandenburg Broadcasting). They asked my friend, who is fluent in German, about his opinions on the marriage of Günther Jauch, a well known German personality, to his long term partner. With a sparkle in his eyes, my friend expressed the desire to see him have one more child and perhaps another dog (German readers will understand). Ten minutes later we came to the entrance of the Sanssouci Gardens where we were greeted by security guards with typically ill-humoured expressions. Confused, my friend and I were directed along another path which led to the Palace.

It took a good half hour plus the peeling of church bells for our brains to kick into gear and realise that the highly secret wedding of Günther Jauch was happening exactly where we happened to be. Naturally, we broke off from our tour of the fig bushes and meandered our way to where a gathering crowd of photographers was situated. There must have been a dozen of them when we first arrived but more came as we waited patiently in the blistering heat to spot the German celebrity. It is at this stage that I must admit, I had absolutely no clue as to who Günther Jauch was. I am not the owner of a television set and have rarely seen German programmes of any sort. My friend on the otherhand did. When the man himself would come into view, my trusted companion would direct my camera aim at the appropriate location.

I am rather attached to my little digital camera but I was in awe of the sophisticated ones the professionals had. They had large zoom lenses attached and many had tripods. When I lifted my camera to take some test shots I felt the smirking gazes of the paparazzi breathing down my neck.

Eventually, large doors opened in the distance and inbetween some tall columns I was able to see, very briefly, a rush of people but very little else. I just clicked and clicked, like everyone else was doing. I mentioned to my friend, in a loud confident voice, that my shots should make the front page of The Times of London by the following morning. One can't be seen as unprofessional after all, even when using inferior equipment. I was then reminded that no one in England would know who the hell Mr Jauch was, which was undeniably true.

On later inspection of my photographs, I was little surprised to see only the backs of people's heads. My day as a paparazzo was short and sweet but one that will probably not be repeated.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Günther Jauch was born in 1956, in Münster. He is a member of the notable Jauch family whose ancestors include famous German painters, Polish novelists, Generals and even the founder of one of Europe's most important insurance brokers, Jauch & Hübener. He lives in Potsdam with his new wife, who he married on the 7th of July 2006 and their 4 children. Two of whom are adopted Siberians. He has won many television awards for his witty and informing style and has presented a number of shows, such as 'Wer wird Millionär?' (Who wants to be a millionaire?), UEFA Champions League football, skiing, Der Große IQ-Test (The Big IQ-Test) aswell as appearing in some adverts. He also owns a production company 'Information & Unterhaltung' (information & entertainment).
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
photo by Beaman

Alfred: Friendships in Berlin

2006-07-03T21:26:00.000+02:00

I watched him yesterday evening, watering the flowers in his window box. An elderly man, probably in his late 70's, maybe early 80's. He lives in a flat that overlooks the courtyard that we share. His window is located at a 90 degree angle from mine. It was warm, the sun was setting and the last beams of light felt lovingly, the soft red petals. I was looking downwards, his level being two floors below that of my level but not the lowest. His shiney scalp glowed against the backdrop of the darkened room behind.

For a good ten minutes before he had opened his window, I'd been leaning over my sill, gazing at the climbing plants that clung to a large wooden frame that concealed ugly communal bins. Thoughts raced through my mind, without purpose, not wanting to stay. Images flickered on and off, like lightning bolts that illuminate a night sky with temporary beauty. Paved slabs on the ground provided the only constant form from which to anchor my then, febrile mind. The stillness outside had been absolute.

When watching the old man tending to his plants, I had noticed the loving care with which he had given each and every flower. Rugged, heavily veined fingers, ran down each individual stalk like a mother soothing the arms of a crying child. His head tilted to one side as he bent over to admire the colour and texture of each floral form. After a few minutes of silence, he began to talk.

"My little friend, how might you be this fine evening?"

I could see nobody behind him nor could I spot anyone looking up from the ground. His voice had a deep soothing quality, like the sound made by the bass in a Jazz ensemble. I began to realise he was not talking to a person, nor was he talking to the flowers but to the little insects that he saw either on the leaves or flying nearby. He called them by name, smiling as he greeted them.

"Goodness, Heinrich, you're looking a little portly today."

His eyes sparkled with delight as he brought out from his pocket, a white handkerchief. He unravelled it and I saw inside what looked to be sugar granules. With a grin that a father would give his son when presenting him with a new bicycle, he poured the contents into one of the corners of the rectangular window box.

"Feast on that my darlings".

When the watering was complete, he briefly went back inside. A minute later he reapeared, his hands empty and stood gazing at the flowers. I saw his lips moving but this time heard no sound. Every now and then he cupped one of his hands and waved it slowly in the air. He wanted to hold his little friends, to feel the warmth of their life on his palms.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Alfred was born in 1927 in the Prenzlauer Berg district of Berlin. Throughout his long life, he has formed friendships with animals, insects and even the microscopic lives that he can't see but knows are there. Their presence pleases him more than the human equliavent. They are good listeners he believes, they are kind and honorable. He's a happy fellow, a loner amongst humans but never without company.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ruben: One of those days

2006-06-25T12:00:00.000+02:00

It is one of life's odd occurances, which adds confusion to an already puzzling world. You're sitting in the sunshine, sipping wine whilst talking to a group of friends. Every now and then you glance up at the nearby trees and study the intricate framework of leaves and branches. Cars hum past, dogs bark, birds sing but after a while you become distracted by the piece of cloth in your hands which you can't see but can only feel. As you watch the lips of the people talking, you start to introspect and discover that the soles of your feet do not feel the ground beneath them, even though when you look down, they are flat on the pavement. As the waiter comes out and asks if there is anything else desired, there comes the sudden realisation that when you turn your head to greet him, your cheek is burrowing deeper into your pillow. His voice looses clarity and gradually the scenery merges into that of the bedroom in which you are sleeping. Upon waking you are left dazed, thrown into an existential disarrangement, unable to remember the night before.

This thought was on my mind, one day, last month, when I endeavoured to go shopping in the local indoor market. It was a Thursday morning, the weather was warm and it should have been a normal day just like any other. At first I didn't notice the changes, those being the absence of people, the quietness and the closed shops. My mind was on other things, the politics of the day and the choices to be made in the near future, food-wise. It was after I had been strolling for around 3 minutes, that I was suddenly jolted out of my day dreaming and into the reality of my surroundings. The trigger, which lent suspicion to my conviction of being asleep, was that of a young man, walking quite happily and with confidence, down the street, in his pyjamas. One might surmise that this would have warrented a thorough pinching of my cheeks and arms in order to regain consciousness, yet I did not, if only out of social decorum. If I had, then the sight of two insane young men, one of them pinching himself with fervour, the other in night clothes, in close proximity of one another, might well have given some poor old lady quite a scare. Whilst reality was at least a little in contention, I resisted the impulse to carry out any overtly abnormal acts.

He wore green and white striped pyjamas under a dark maroon robe that was hung over his shoulders. On his sockless feet were brown suede slippers. Although his face was unshaven and his hair untidied, there was no immediate inkling on my part to assume he was a vagrant. The self-assured manner in which he walked intimated that he had a place to go and a place to return to and that time was not for squandering on the little routines of changing out of one's night clothes.

We were both heading in the same direction, towards the indoor market. A large, square shaped, red brick building with entrances on each of it's four sides. I was by this time, thoroughly confused. Where was everybody? Why was it so quiet? All I could hear was the chirping of sparrows in the trees nearby. The pyjama wearing man reached the entrance of the market first and I realised immediately from his reaction that something was amiss. He raised his hands briefly into the air as though praying to the heavens then brought them together in a loud and incredulous clap. I half expected him to go floating off into the sky or to walk through the wall, as was still my idea that this was all a dream. Instead, he spun round and returned in the direction he had come. As we passed one another, I noted no sign of embarrassment or cognizance on his part for the inappropriate clothing that he wore.

When I reached the entrance to the market, I found what I had been suspecting. It was closed. The lights inside were off, the door was locked and the place was empty. On the glass of the entrance door was a note that finally answered my earlier concerns of whether I was awake or not. I was indeed awake, although I had my doubts about the pyjama wearing man. Perhaps he had been sleep walking. The reasons why everything was closed, the streets were quiet and little was to be seen, was due to it being the Christian holiday of Himmelfahrt (Ascension Day). Not being religious myself, the day had totally escaped my attention. I have though, made a point to remember it for next year, to save myself further confusion and angst.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ruben was born in 1980. Originally from Hamburg, he moved to Berlin just over 2 years ago to study engineering at the Technische Universität in the centre of the city. His friends know him to be impulsive and he is famed for ignoring traditions and social norms. Last Summer, he turned up for a job interview, when interested in becoming a tour guide, wearing a bear outfit (the bear being the animal on the flag of Berlin). As he had told the exasperated interviewer, the bear costume would have been easy to follow in the crowds. He didn't get the job. Last month, on the morning of Himmelfahrt, Ruben was out to get some food and wine. After a night of hot and steamy passion with the beautiful Elena, a Russian tourist from Moscow, he was little interested in bothering with the formalities of dressing smartly to go shopping.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Martin: Hooligans and flags

2006-06-15T12:55:00.000+02:00

Fat, tattooed, bald, bulldoggish and as white as the ice cream sold on Morecambe Bay promenade. That's the usual image that first comes to mind when imagining an English football hooligan. This stereotype is in most cases true. As a French friend of mine likes to point out, it's how the typical English football fan is seen in the eyes of the average Continental European. His words should be taken lightly though for my dear friend also thinks fish and chips is the main evening meal for all British households. I keep informing him that it is not, it's 'Chicken Tikka Masala'.

I was tempted to take a photo therefore, when I came across a German football fan on his way to the screening of the Germany versus Costa Rica match last Friday, in the 'Fan Fest Mile'. Even I, not one for stereotyping, thought at first that the elephantine mass in front must have been a fellow countryman of mine. All the above descriptions fitted, he also wore a white t-shirt that competently fitted over his portly frame, khaki calf-length shorts and sandals. It was only when I got closer that I saw he had German flags painted on both his cheeks and that the white shirt was in fact a German football jersey.

He looked threatening with his slow and deliberate swagger, his expression was menacing. As I walked past him, I remembered the little Saint Georges flag pin on the front of my bag, which was on my back. My family had sent it just before the World Cup incase I wanted to announce to the city that I was an England supporter and English come to that. Normally such an idea would have been laughable but this month is a special one and as everyone seems to be wearing some sort of national label or flag, I thought it would be a bit of fun.

There came a grunt from behind, followed by a throat gurgle which was a little unsettling. I wanted to turn around and see if the gentleman was choking on something he had swallowed but I thought it best not to. My cricket bat was in the UK and so I would have had little to defend myself with if he had actually decided to throttle an Engländer. Luckily he didn't. I assumed that the sight of the England flag had caused his thoat muscles to contract wildly in surprise or disgust. Perhaps he thought it was a Costa Rican flag. Geography probably wasn't one of his strongest points; academia in general I had surmised, had most likely given him a wide berth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Martin is a 33 year-old marriage guidance counsellor from Potsdam. He is married himself, with three young daughters, each of whom are said to look identical to their father. Last Friday, Martin was on his way to meet some friends in the Tiergarten, to watch the match together. Throughout his life, he's been troubled by his thuggish appearence, people often avoid talking to him at parties and dinners, sometimes even calling the security guards to remove the uninvited lout. He has grown accustomed to the looks of astonishment on the faces of the troubled couples that seek his help, Martin always knows when they are asking themselves whether they have been misdirected to the 'anger management' room instead. Amongst the people who know him well, he is considered a kind, gentle and humorous fellow, who is devoted to his family.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lukas: Football frenzy

2006-06-11T16:09:00.000+02:00

Berlin has finally gone football mad. In the weeks leading up to the event, a foreign visitor without an interest in sport could have been forgiven for assuming nothing out of the ordinary would be taking place in the Summer of 2006. Now, no one can miss the event, the World Cup itself. German flags adorn shop windows, hang from private balconies and are even found poking out of car aerials. All of which popped out seemingly overnight. In truth though, it is more subdued than would be the equilavent in England but a lot of fun nevertheless.

On the opening day of the tournament I decided to visit the 'Fan Fest Mile' that leads off from the Brandenburg Gate towards the Siegessäule (Victory Column). The mall had been closed off to traffic so that a whole host of stalls, beer tents, flag shops, football games and sand boxes for children could be put in place. There was also a bungee jump, a ferris wheel, a sand art instillation and various advertising fronts giving people inexpensive massages and similar. Nice activities and distractions but the only reason why tens of thousands of people flocked onto that mile last Friday afternoon was for one thing, the first match, Germany versus Costa Rica. Around six huge screens had been erected at various intervals along the mall, each with a thunderous sound system to boot. At the very front, almost touching the Gate, was the main stage (beneath a further screen), where bands and dancers performed.

A troupe of pom-pom girls seemed to be the main dance act, for which I was a little bemused. Being in the centre of Europe and with a fine Prussian tradition of dance, why had Berlin forsaken it's local culture? The answer soon became evident when the main host of the afternoon announced that they were the 'Mastercard cheerleaders' or something similar. Advertising evidently had won the day.

The game finally began at 3pm and when the German team scored an early goal, the hordes of fans that surrounded the lone Englishman in the crowd, went berserk! There I stood, trying to keep my footing as my fellow Berliners danced, cheered and jumped up and down with their arms and flags flapping in all directions. It was the first goal of the World Cup tournament and the celebrations were deafening. By the time kick-off had come, the whole mile was jammed packed with people so that moving only ten yards took a good five minutes to complete. Not that any true football fan would move from their spot until the final whistle unless buckling under the effects of the searing hot sun that glowed upon the back's of the tens of thousands of heads present.

Germany went on to score a second goal and as before, the crowd went wild but I detected a slight decrease in celebrations. The first goal is always a special moment for any team. Being in the centre of the masses, I began to pick up on the crowd mentality and drive, even though I was not a member of their tribe. I could feel the blood pulsating through my veins in tune with the atmosphere of war. The urge to beat my chest and sound out a gorillaesque cry was just discernable in the cellar of my brain. Had I done such a thing as a German, it would have gone largely unnoticed but as an Englishman in a crowd of Germans? I think it wouldn't have gone down very well at all. Not that I would have carried out such an act in any circumstances anyway.

It was while watching the match that I couldn't help but observe the trio of youths in German national colours directly infront of my position. They were angry, as many teenage males are but one of them in particular seemed to be enraged. It wasn't a hooligan type rage where surrounding people were in danger of being punched or gouged but, if there is such a description, it was a calm and collected fury. As a Dutch fan, dressed in all orange, squeezed past, the youth started to growl, his teeth showing, like a wolf preparing to leap. His narrow, light blue eyes, pierced the air as he stared at the Nederlander's nape. From the chasms of his chest came a roar of ferocity as he pointed a finger at the, by now, distant figure and sent forth a battery of curses. A little later, with both his arms in the air, he chanted, this time looking up towards the screen, as a German footballer took away the legs of an unfortunate Costa Rican striker. One of his friends playfully hit the back of his head, after which he turned and shouted obscenities, his face twisted, his back arched. His friends laughed and retorted with angry statements themselves. It seemed to be bravado, self-conscious boys trying to be men but one of them definitely had a problem that might well need attention in later life.

Germany went on to win the match 4-2. A good start to the 2006 World Cup. The England game would be the next day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lukas is a 17 year-old from the Britz district of Berlin. From an early age, he had been taught by both his parents that life was cruel and hard and that the only way to survive was through anger and intimidation of others. His father, a former member of the Stasi had instilled these lessons on his young son, genuinely believing it would give him valuable tools, just like his own father had in the bitter 1950's. A sound beating was often used to further the point. Lukas finds it hard to relax, once a cousin, a professional masseur, told him that she'd never felt such tense and rigid muscles before. He took it as a compliment. He was tough, he thought, it was a sign of strength.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Budur: Love on the face of the moon

2006-06-08T08:12:00.000+02:00

It was around 8:30 yesterday evening when I saw the pretty Arab girl standing outside the video rental store in my home district of Berlin. She wore a white hejab (headscarf) which completely covered her hair and a loose fitting, long-sleeved shirt and trousers. I'd seen her a few times before but never alone like she was last night. Her gaze was directed upwards, over the nearby trees, towards the moon, just visible in the light blue evening sky. The sun was still shining between the leaves, casting it's glow onto rooftops and advertisments that hung on lofty walls. Little flies flittered madly in circles, dancing their last before the night closed in. There was something wrong. A tear was rolling steadily down her left cheek, her eyes were filled with sadness. I could vaguely see her lips moving as though whispering to an unseen listener.

Three weeks ago I had seen her in the Tiergarten with a German boy of the same age. It wasn't the first time I'd caught a glimpse of their happiness together but this memory of them in particular remains the most vivid. The day had been warm and humid, sunshine present for most of it but in the late afternoon a mass of grey clouds had gathered and unleashed a torrent of heavy rain. I had happened to be walking through the park at the time and as is my luck, got caught unawares in the most central part of the sprawling gardens, a good ten minutes run from any form of comfortable shelter. With a rather light heart, I gave in to the inevitable and enjoyed a good soaking while walking at normal pace. A little later, thinking myself the only sane person in the area, I came across two figures racing across a wide area of grass surrounded by trees. A boy in jeans and a light-weight black jacket was chasing a hejab wearing girl. They were both laughing, she giggling and crying out in joy, he making monkey noises. I watched them run in circles, twirling together, jumping over puddles that had quickly formed. Neither cared about getting drenched, they even rolled over on the ground, whooping like children without a care in the world. They knew no one was around to watch, they were alone, they soon took their chance and kissed beneath the open skies.

It's very rare in Berlin to see a Muslim girl walking with a non-Muslim boy, infact they were the only pair I had ever seen. Probably the very reason why they had anchored in my memory. An odd occurence but one that should be usual, in an ideal world.

Her parents had told her recently, that if they caught her with him again, they would kill him and glady serve a prison sentence in order to save the reputation of their family. She had been mortified and had pleaded for them to relent. Sleepness nights she had spent in thinking of ways in which to solve their terrible predicament. Her father had even scoured through her diary for the boy's phone number and told him, without her knowing, that he would kill his own daughter if he, the boy, kept seeing her. An untruth, the father dearly loved his daughter but he knew the boy would be unsure.

Last week, the boy got a job in Stuttgart and knew he would have to leave her. Their last meeting together was three days ago, in the grounds of Charlottenburg Palace, beside the river Spree. After strolling in near silence for an hour, he had told her about his plans. They both cried but she knew even so, that they would have had to have finished sooner or later. She could not leave her sick mother or her family and also she feared being tracked down if she went with him. It was in the late evening when they had said their final goodbyes. He would leave on the early train, the next morning.

Whilst looking into her eyes, he had made her promise that as often as they could they would look up towards the moon, the one thing that would always be visible to both of them for the rest of their lives and remember one another. She had then told him to imagine them together, like when they had visited the cinema, sitting side by side, their fingers interwoven, watching the film. In some small way, by looking towards the stars, they would always be connected.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Budur was born in the Berlin district of Moabit, in 1986, to Jordanian immigrants. Her father owned a video rental store which he ran with his eldest son. Her mother was diagnosed with Multiple sclerosis two years ago and much of Budur's time is spent caring for her. She had met Benno in her first year at University last year, whilst studying medicine but before the end of the second term, her family had urged her to quit. The reason they gave was that as she was the only daughter, she must stay and look after her sick mother but she knew the two real reasons were to keep her away from 'Western men' and to become accustomed to home life in preparation for a likely arranged marriage in the near future. She would never forget Benno nor their promise.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gretchen: A Fiat Panda in the woods

2006-06-07T12:24:00.000+02:00

'Sucking' and a 'wasp's nest' came to mind when I saw the middle aged lady a few days ago. Her eyes were screwed tight and her lips pushed into a pout of condescension as she glared incredulously at us as we had past by. A companion of her's was a few metres behind, sorting through something in a bag. They sat on their bicycles in a similar manner to that of how the Queen of England used to sit, when inspecting her troops on horseback. The lady infront wore black lycra leggings, a large grey, leaf-patterned wooley jumper and on her back, a brown leather satchel. Her hair was tied tightly into a ponytail so that from a distance she seemed almost bald.

The location of our encounter was in some beautiful woodland just outside Berlin, to the north, in Brandenburg. It had been raining on and off for the past week and the rather uneven and potholed lanes between the trees and ferns were laden with puddles of various sizes. When the weather is more cheerful, the area is very popular with walkers and cyclists. Indeed, a couple of friends and I had been enjoying the scenery regardless of the sunshine hiding behind ominous black clouds. The place was deserted and so it had, at first, been a nice surprise to see other people after nearly an hour by ourselves.

We knew straight away why they were giving us the nasty looks. Little old cars, the size of a Mini are just not meant to go speeding along unkept cycle paths, especially ones that launch vehicles into the air every so often if going fast enough. The two ladies were stationed on a different path and so were in no danger from our antique 'auto' yet they were not amused. Even when all three of us waved in a friendly manner to them as we sped by, their trout-like features did not move an inch.

Ofcourse, they were right, it was not very civil of us to take a car where cars are not really meant to go, yet we were lost and when lost, some rules often have to be disposed of. Having said that, I noticed tractors had used the routes as their tyre marks were imprinted on many of the paths, so maybe we were not totally in the wrong.

A little later we were reminded that we were not indeed a tractor or even a landrover when we lost a few nuts and bolts going over a particulary high ridge in the centre of the track. A large pool of water had hidden a deep trough on the right-hand side. Once back out on the main roads, believing little damage had been done, we found to our dismay that we could not go above 20 km per hour without the engine cutting out. Then to make matters worse, the speed barrier went lower and lower after every 5 minutes until eventually we had to push the car through a town for half a mile to a mechanic's garage. It was at this time I realised German drivers are not like British drivers. They don't get out and help you push the car out of the way, they just sit and honk...and honk...and honk.

Surely this sight would have added a smile to the lady in the woods, a smile of triumphant recognition of her superior reasoning. Perhaps but she wouldn't have a funny story to tell her grandchildren about rally driving through German woods in a little green Fiat Panda.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gretchen was born in 1968, in the East German town of Erberswalde, near to Berlin. At the age of 18 she had joined the German Police force and had risen quickly through the ranks. On her days off she likes to test her fitness by either jogging, cycling, sailing or swimming in the many lakes around the capital. Gretchen is well known amongst her colleagues as a perfectionist and reports the most minor of infringments she observes when on patrol and even when off duty. She has been married for nearly ten years to Manfred, a timid dentist who she knew was perfect for her fetish of female sexual domination. Patients and friends have long been worried about Manfred's health.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Purumitra: The New Hauptbahnhof

2006-05-30T00:16:00.000+02:00

He ran first one way, then the other, his suitcase on wheels rumbling along behind him. A look of bewilderment was plastered over his tanned face as he squeezed through the crowds. Every few seconds he absentmindedly rubbed the top of his bald head, which shone like a mirror from the sunshine pouring through the immense glass roof above. His long and flowing orange robes floated over his toenails poking out from modest brown sandals. A lost Buddhist monk, no doubt en route to the Buddhist House in the north west of the city. Why he was in a hurry, I don’t know, perhaps he was due to give a talk on the way of Samma Sati (Mindfulness).

It was the first full day of business for the newly opened Hauptbahnhof, the biggest train station in the whole of Europe. Crowds of intrigued Berliners, tourists and commuters flocked onto the walkways and platforms, most staring wide eyed in frozen amazement at the shimmering glass and giant metal structures. For eight years the inhabitants of the city had waited for the 700 million euro project to be completed and now they came to inspect their new pride and joy. Rushing around was not on the itinerary for the majority of visitors and so a Buddhist monk, for once, had the speediest set of legs in the near vicinity. Cameras clicked, laughter flowed, pensioners looked proudly skywards, fathers explained, children complained. It was a theatre of Berlin lives, all gathered together, encased in an ever renewing glass box.

I was watching the monk from a walkway one level above as he fumbled for some coins with which to buy a U-bahn ticket. Technically monks are not meant to carry money but of course there must be allowances for travelling. He bent double as he studied the instructions on how to buy a ticket located on the front of the automatic ticket machine. As he was doing so, a group of children passed by behind and pointed in his direction, fascinated by the clothing. With awareness, the monk turned and lit up in a smile at the inquisitive youngsters, giving also a slight bow of the head, then returned to his reading.

A few minutes later, he had gained a ticket. He quickly trundled off, out of sight, beneath where I was standing. I must say, I was a little disappointed to see him go, his presence in a strange way was almost soothing, for despite his obvious tensions over travelling, there was a deeper and more serene peace about him.

As I had watched him, the image of a lake had come to mind. During stormy weather, as ripples streak across the surface of the water in a multitude of directions, deep below, it is calm and still like a sleeping baby.

Suddenly I saw him again, this time he was running in the opposite direction towards the escalators. His shiny scalp reflecting the window frames of the ceiling. I was sure that was how the roof of a train must look when pulling into the station. As quickly as he had reappeared, he disappeared. Perhaps he would come my way again before I left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Purumitra was born in 1965 in the Southern Indian state of Tamil Nadu. At an early age his poverty stricken Buddhist father sent him to neighbouring Sri Lanka to become a monk. Over the years, Purumitra developed into a leading teacher of meditation and dharma. Nowadays he spends most of his time in Europe, travelling from Buddhist retreat, to temple, to Sangha, in various nations. Proficient in six languages, he has grown a reputation for the fluency of his discourses and his dedication to the well being of others.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Werner: Empty Bottles

2006-05-25T23:52:00.000+02:00

A man, lying on the bench. He seemed asleep, perhaps he was dead. That couldn't be, he was in motion still. Fingers twitched, spread outwards ever so slightly then closed. His chest heaved, once powerful lungs expanding and contracting. The wrinkles around his eyes were deep, torturous, scars of a hard life. The eyelids fluttered like the wings of a butterfly. He was an old man, in his 70's maybe, solid in build but weathered by the onslaught of time. On the floor, next to his reclining figure were a dozen beer bottles, all of them empty.

Long ago, his youthful vigour had disappeared. The once clear complexion without lines or blemishes, had faded into distant memory. Even he could not remember now, the days of his youth. Images from the past paraded through his mind but were distorted, mutated, like the broken film reel found in the dusty attic. Faces of those he once knew splintered into those he saw staring at his tattered clothing.

When he was awake, drinking beer after beer, in a drunken haze, he had watched people walking past. The bench was situated a few metres off the main road in a miniature park, therefore he was able to observe from a distance. From beneath the trees he had seen the mass of arms and legs, merging into one another, creating a fog that eventually sent him to slumber.

As I glanced at his large belly protruding from beneath his dark green jumper, I saw not an old drunkard but a baby being held by it's mother, close to her breast. The loving eyes that had once looked down upon his forehead, the soft fingers that had tickled his ears and stroked his cheeks. A heart that had been filled to the brim with love, now deceased, like the innocent and playful smile of that child.

An old man, alone with his bottles, asleep in the centre of Berlin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Born in 1936, Werner had spent his entire life living in Berlin. From the tribulations of the Second World War he had garnered a great interest in Philosophy, especially Existentialism. He put this to use after his education by teaching in the main Berlin University. Years later, after a failed marriage and the unrelenting flashbacks from his war torn childhood, he turned to drink and fell into alcoholism. Finally, despite sympathetic attempts to help, he was made jobless by his employers. For a couple of decades now, Werner has become a regular site in the Mitte district of the city, always seen with a bottle to hand.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Constance: Noodles and Laxatives in Berlin

2006-05-23T14:38:00.000+02:00

One sunny day last week, I ventured into a Chinese shop on Luxemburger Strasse in the Berlin district of Wedding. With my cooking skills being rather basic, I had decided to explore exotic possibilities to add to the frying pan. It was an interesting little place, the shelves were crammed full of herbal remedies, noodles, soups, dried vegetables, rice and so on. There were little signs behind the counter advertising duck, Zongzi (rice balls in leaves) and Tofu. A discernable scent was present, that of pickled egg, it was not a bad smell but nor was it attractive.

I had been there no more than a couple of minutes when in stepped an African girl. Prior to her arrival I had been the only person in the shop except for a Chinese woman sitting next to a till reading a book. The new arrival smiled cheerfully as she entered, greeting the stern owner with enthusiasm. She was probably from Nigeria or Cameroon because she had the typical thickset features and build of a West African. Her eyes sparkled and her step was insouciant.

For two or three minutes, the girl scanned the shelves and tables for whatever she was searching for. I, in the meantime, studied the rather interesting menu displayed on a wall, which I think included the tongue of a cow. Definitely not to my tastes. Then from behind, I heard the African girl approach the Chinese woman and ask a question in very poor German. The reply she got was incomprehensible as well. I wondered whether either of them could speak more than a few words of Goethe's language. The girl began laughing, obviously realising the absurdity of the situation. Her laugh was lovely, a rich flowing tide of melodious chortles.

She then spoke in English, asking the woman if she had something that “unblocks the pipes”. The Chinese woman didn’t know English either and answered in a mix of basic German and Cantonese. I was a little confused at this point, she wasn’t going to find drainage cleaner in this type of shop. Again, she asked in English, this time a little lower in volume, “have you stuff to clear the tummy?” Once again the question was not understood and as before, she belted out a burst of laughter, this time bending double in the humour of it all.

I knew now what she wanted and decided to enter in on the action. I offered my help to the African girl which was, going by her face, much appreciated. A major problem immediately transpired though, I had no idea what ‘laxative’ was in German. Not that that mattered a great deal, I presumed the Chinese woman wouldn’t either. I explained that to the girl, who proceeded to giggle out of embarrassment, knowing that I knew what she was after. The Chinese woman’s face was as neutral as ever, she actually seemed a little put out by the incessant laughter and the baffling language. I think most of her customers were fellow Chinese expatriates who she could communicate with in her mother tongue.

Short of unlocking my past acting skills and demeaning myself by miming the results of taking a laxative, I didn’t know how else to get the point across. I asked the African girl what she thought about my idea. She replied by going into a fit of hysterical laughter and thigh slapping which perplexed the shop owner further. So that’s what I did, I mimed. It wasn’t a vulgar performance nor did I ever point to my bottom. Gently rubbing my stomach I pretended to take a tablet and swallow. Then as if in pain at first, I proceeded to become relaxed in my expression before flushing an invisible toilet. It worked! She nodded in recognition, though without a smile, and took out a small packet of powder from a drawer nearby.

It took five minutes for the African girl to pay for the product, she had to sit down first on a plastic chair and recover her senses after my performance. Tears streamed from her eyes and her shoulders bobbed up and down under the strain of uncontrollable comedy-fuelled spasms.

We left the shop together and once on the street, she implored that I accompany her to lunch, which I happily accepted.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Constance was born in 1980 in Yaounde, Cameroon. At the age of 23, she had accompanied some of her life long friends to the German capital, in search of prosperity. Known amongst her friends as ‘Kitty’, she is well loved, partly for her marvellous humour and extremely friendly demeanour. She wants to stay in Europe, partly so she can ignore the wishes of her parents back home, to marry a suitable bachelor they keep telling her about on the phone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marzuq: One word

2006-05-08T17:34:00.000+02:00

Every day he stands there, in the same place just outside the Sparkasse bank, next to the kerb. An old Arab man, in his late 70's, perhaps even early 80's. Around his neck hangs a make-shift counter on which are a variety of goods he sells, ranging from batteries to cigarette lighters. He is like an island in the centre of a fast flowing river. Cars speed by behind him, pedestrians march past in front. Every thing becomes a blur if you focus on his smiling eyes.

Few, who pass him regularly, could guess the reasons for his happiness in the face of such seemingly obvious hardships. His frail body bends under the weight of the wares he carries but his features are relaxed and confident. Every now and then, someone stops and buys a key ring or passes a few minutes in genial conversation with him. His smile is infectious, you are drawn to it, you smile in reply but without knowing why.

I never hear the singing that makes his happiness absolute. The traffic sounds, boots tapping on the concrete and the raised voices of children are abundant but never that beautiful chorus that swamps his entire being. He watches people as they walk past, his tanned face glowing as he listens to the leaves in nearby trees. They sing, each and every one of them, more beautiful than any human choir. Every blade of grass in the nearby park sings similarly, he can hear them unified in voice. Sometimes he closes his eyes and listens to the fibres of his cotton jacket singing with such attachment and tenderness. When a man or woman walks past with a sullen face, he hears the blood in their veins joyously crying out in devotion. Everything he can see or feel is singing, constantly but in a way that neither tires nor irritates. There is only one word to be heard in his ears. One solitary word that fills his heart with happiness and soothes his tired muscles and bones. Even the birds sing it, as do the clouds that float above his head, the bricks in the walls of the surrounding buildings and the miniscule animals that can hardly be seen with the human eye. With each breath he takes, his whispered voice chants the name that can be heard all around. Over and over and over again. He bathes in the word that brings meaning to his life, that brings him total bliss. The name of the one thing he worships with all his soul.

"Allah"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Marzuq was born in 1927 in Algiers. After a childhood spent in abject poverty, he was dealt a further blow by the death of his mother and father by Nationalists when only 15. Following this incident he joined the French army and saw action in the latter stages of World War 2 and in the Algerian War of Independence between 1954 and 1962. When the French were defeated he fled to France, later moving to Germany in the 1980's after suffering intense discrimination in the suburbs of Marseille. In 1991, on the brink of mental collapse, he began to hear the singing that now so dominates his life. These days he never feels sad, lonely or fearful, only delight in being alive to hear such beauty.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Leonhard: Torture in the library

2006-05-03T08:22:00.000+02:00

If a library could be a sanctuary for murder, I would have claimed my first scalp today. A librarian, a male one at that, was committing mental torture on a poor young foreign writer and I could see the enjoyment of it sparkling in his eyes. Not that I consider myself a writer exactly, that's just one of many labels I give myself on any given day. Something my dharma master would be most displeased with.

The library in question is the ‘Staatsbibliothek’ on Westhafen Strasse just south of Wedding, an altogether depressing place on the best of days. It seems to have been established within the remnants of old warehouses by the harbour which with a lot of doing up could be a great location for cafes and/or expensive flats. If not for a sign half a mile away, the library would be a forgotten place. It’s not even shown on my Berlin city map. Maybe that’s how they like it, or rather he likes it, the patriarch of the establishment where everything must be kept in order, perfect order.

With a beard reminiscent of vacuum cleaner fibres and the eyes of that headmistress you so wish to forget, he dominates the rather bland interior with his chronic fussing and poking.

I’d forgotten my library card and when I entered through the door, I realised I had a 50% chance of being turned away, even though I am a familiar regular. You see, if you don’t have your identity card you can’t come in, even if you were there the previous day and the eighty before that. Whereas in most normal places they would wave a habitual user through with a smile, here, it’s “you’re passport please”.

When he had checked my name on the computer records, I thought I was home and dry. What more proof would he need to show I am a fully paid member?

“You will need to fill out this form as you don’t have your identification but first you must go to the other side of the counter”, he said.

The other side of the counter being through little swinging gates with rather humble enter and exit logos attached to them, marking the border between the ‘actual’ library and the entrance area. I did indeed have the intention of stealing the entire collection of German financial newspapers dating back from the 1970s but not on this visit and so was rather put out at such finicky behaviour. I did what I was told nevertheless, wanting nothing more than to sit down and read The Times.

Eventually, after a lecture on the benefits of always remembering to bring your library card, I was allowed entry. It must have been one of his good days. Perhaps it was the effect of the slim woman at a desk nearby who I noticed through the course of the afternoon, was the centre of his attention.

One of his peculiarities is the habit of confronting people if they so much as put an elbow on a newspaper or hold a book in a certain position. All reading material must be placed flat on the tables with palms and arms well clear of any paper. If not, you are treated to a five minute lecture by the King of Monotone, fifteen if you are an attractive young lady.

One can’t help imagining what his reaction would be if one was to start madly licking the pages of a newspaper spread across the table whilst grunting like a pig.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Leonhard was born in 1955, in the Moabit district of Berlin. At the age of 22 he married the gorgeous Helene, his childhood sweetheart. For ten happy years they travelled the world together and set up a book shop close to the house where he was born. When she died of cancer in 1988, he and the book shop collapsed. He threw himself a year later into the first job that came along, that of librarian in one of the city libraries. Leonhard likes to keep busy, to keep things in order, to always make sure things are spotless, to keep his memories safely filed away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Josef: Tourettes and Pigeons

2006-04-28T22:53:00.000+02:00

Light raindrops were falling as I walked along the south side of the canal which runs between the Tiergarten and the Zoologischer Garten. I’d just passed the entrance to the Zoo, where masses of visitors were waiting in large groups, having just stepped off the dozen or more coaches parked nearby. The area was lively with excited children, families and tourists. I could smell the typical scent of the Zoo and was even able to spot some of the enclosures between iron railings to my right but could not catch sight of any animals. The sounds of laughter from within the grounds began to tempt my curiosity.

“BUGGER!!!”

It was one of those moments when the heart feels like it’s leaping out of your mouth and the sky is falling on your head at the same time. Someone directly behind had just shouted, at the top of their voice, the above exclamation. There had been no words before to give any advance warning nor were there any directly afterwards. I looked around, probably with eyes as wide as saucers, to see where the shout had come from.

The man was in his 30’s with long black hair which saddled a slim, unshaven face, he wore dark blue jeans and a dark denim jacket. He had the voice of a town crier, which gave the impression he was used to shouting. The man walked past, as if nothing was wrong, striding purposefully and with pace. I looked at him, stunned, wondering what on earth had made him do such a thing.

There was a rather attractive young lady a few metres ahead, she wore a smart haute couture dress, with a small thin coat and high heels. As the ruffled looking man neared, I began to wonder if he would reproduce his antics behind her. He did but this time he didn’t shout, he shrieked.

“FUCK!!!”

The poor woman literally jumped into a hedge. Her hands raised upwards to her ears as she leaped for cover. As he passed her, she looked up startled from amongst the leaves, then her face turned to anger as she glared at him walking away.

I was walking in the same direction as the Tourettes inflicted gentleman and so was able to witness, with much interest I might add, what unfolded next.

He came across a group of pigeons feeding off some bread being dropped by a mother and her three young children. The pigeons, like in most large cities, are reasonably tame here and just amble out of the way of oncoming pedestrians. Not this time.

“PIGEONS!!!”

Wings flapped madly into the air in a swarm of terror. Pigeons flew in every direction imaginable. The mother and children could only duck with their hands over their faces. I couldn’t help but laugh, no one was injured and it just seemed so immensely humorous. The mother didn’t seem to see the funny side though as she consoled the younger of her brood who had started to bawl his head off.

As like before, the man just kept on walking, as though nothing were amiss. I began to realise that the frequency of his disorder had probably rendered him indifferent to the effects on other people. I should add here, that Tourette's Syndrome, or in this case the Coprolalia form of Tourettes, is a neurological disorder characterized by involuntary vocal outbursts, to which there is no known cure.

A few minutes later he came across an elderly lady and her small dog. She looked rather frail and I began to worry slightly about what would happen in this instance.

“BITCH!!!”

The little dog went berserk. It tugged on it’s leash, running in circles, barking in a frenzy. The old lady, on the other hand, seemed not to have heard the insulting swear word. She looked worriedly down at the crazy dog, trying to keep her footing whilst shouting commands for it to calm down. I noticed on passing, hearing aids hooked to both her ears.

A little while later he turned off onto a different path and I lost sight of him but not before a few more expletives were heard. I wondered what it would be like to be afflicted with such an embarrassing and anti-social condition such as Tourettes. Perhaps he had built up a defence mechanism of uncaring acceptance of the uncontrollable outbursts or maybe the fingers around his coke bottle had been clenched with heartache and loneliness. One would never know for sure.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Josef was born in 1969 in the Wedding district of Berlin. At the age of 6 he developed the Coprolalia form of Tourettes for reasons unknown to his immediate family. Throughout his school days he suffered from the condition and from severe bullying, finally being home-schooled in his early teenage years. Happily, he went on to be accepted at University where he met a more sympathetic crowd and group of friends. He was later the lead singer in a Berlin rap group which met with moderate success.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dave: American politics in Berlin

2006-04-26T15:33:00.000+02:00

I was strolling along Friedrichstrasse the other day towards the river, admiring the interesting architecture that can be found en route. The day was pleasant, the warmth of the oncoming Summer cheering the mind and seeming to add an extra ‘va va voom’ to every ones hearts. The Winter months had been long, too long, dark and cold, freezing in fact. The seasons were changing and you could smell it in the air. It was the type of day to spend sitting with friends, drinking wine whilst talking about love, philosophy, music...life! And so it was I ended up talking about the Iraq war with an American expatriate.

He had been standing next to a table, which was plonked on a busy pavement in the hub of the city. Crowds of workers, tourists, students and such like, thronged the streets as far as the eye could see. Upon catching my gaze he had excitedly lumbered forwards and started what would turn out to be, a rather fruitless conversation.

“Hi there! George Bush and his cronies are systematically destroying our planet and heading us into another World War....”

It was at this point he suddenly remembered to ask,

...ah, by the way, do you speak English?”

“Yes but why didn’t you start in German, we are after all in the German capital?”, I replied.

Then he shouted, “Claudia, this is one for you!”

He was an American, I could tell immediately from the accent. He had turned to his female assistant who was handing out leaflets from the table. She was obviously German because the next thing I knew, I was being told the same rhetoric as before but this time in German.

“Hang on lady, I speak English, maybe easier if your colleague continued.”, I interrupted.

“Dave, he is one of yours, couldn’t you tell?”, she said to him.

He came back, a little confused and apologised for not realising I was British. She laughed, obviously finding it rather amusing. Anyway, my initial truthfulness was actually a mistake because for the next half an hour I was on the receiving end of a political monologue. I tried, I did try, to put my views across to him, then to politely leave, a number of times but he droned on, delighted with his chance to spread ‘the news’, or his version of.

“We have to do our bit, you guys in England, with Blair, and us in the United States, with the murderer and dictator George Bush...we have to get all the signatures possible collected together and tell these gangsters that they can’t get away with murder and....”

His face was utterly nondescript, not a feature I can remember to this day, despite having looked at it for nigh on 30 minutes. He wore a grey coat and light brown corduroy trousers. I had guessed he was in his mid-40s, probably from the East Coast.

“...terrorising the lives of countless Iraqis, Afghans and Palestinians.”

I politely gave him some time at first, I like politics and knew quite a bit about what he was talking about so it wasn’t completely going over my head and I would have been quite happy to stay longer if he had only been willing to discuss and not preach.

Eventually I managed to prise myself out of the situation. We parted on good terms, I having being loaded with four leaflets and a rather large pamphlet. He was most likely exuberant at having successfully informed another European of the evils that supposedly lie at the top of our political establishments. If it meant he could drink his coffee later that night, safe in the knowledge that the world might not in fact be heading into World War 3 within his life time, due to my enlightenment, then that was indeed, marvellous.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dave was a 41 year-old former teacher from Massachusetts. After being fired from his school for burning the Stars and Stripes in front of his bewildered pupils, he had set off for a new life in Europe. Shortly upon arriving, he had met Claudia, a 39 year-old single mother of one, whom he married. Every weekend they attended political rallies, events and meetings where they met like minded souls, usually other expatriates. The topics of conversation varied between the 'evil' Republicans and classic country and western songs from the 1970's.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Norbert and Rudi: Breakfast in Berlin

2006-04-23T20:44:00.000+02:00

“I’m most terribly sorry but I think my Border Collie has just eaten your Miniature Pinscher.”

I was trying to work out the best translation to use in response to the rather disturbing predicament occurring at my feet. The owner of the tiny mutt was standing a few feet away seemingly in deep thought waiting for the usual doggie formalities of bum sniffing to end. His gaze was pointing away from my position and so I had a little time in which to prepare a reply to what would be a thunderous reception, no doubt.

“Gosh, maybe I could interest you in free English lessons? How about that? As many as you want.”

On the off chance that he was an understanding fellow, I thought that offering him my teaching services for free would be a cunning shock diluter. On further observation though, I decided that probably wasn’t going to do it. He didn’t look the appreciative type.

“Excuse me, I think I saw your dog running after the Terrier over there.”

Now that could have worked but for two things. Firstly, I couldn’t see a Terrier, or any other dog nearby. Secondly, I was sure that a dog of that miniature size couldn’t have run further than 10 metres without collapsing in exhaustion. Time was running out.

This incident occurred a few weeks ago when I was walking the neighbours dog, Molly. I had agreed to look after the good natured Border Collie whilst the family were away on holiday. She was very well trained and charming company so it had been no problem at all.

One fine morning, Molly and I had encountered another pair of early risers in the shape of a burly man and his extremely tiny Pinscher. As is the custom, we let our canine partners explore the finer parts of each others anatomy, preferring ourselves, in the meantime, to give each other a slight nod of the head and a smile. He had then walked slowly forwards, halting a few feet away, looking towards a distant tree.

At first I thought the little dog was underneath Molly somewhere and that it would happily sprint away within a few seconds. When this didn’t transpire, I asked Molly where it had gone. Well, she looked up and there was the answer, two little hind legs disappearing into her mouth. There was no sound, no little squeaks or yelps, just a couple of mundane Collie coughs. Her eyes were as innocent as the day was young.

I looked from Molly to the big chap nearby. He was a muscular man, tall and obviously well accustomed to manual labour. He was in his 50’s, balding but with a good covering of black hair to the sides. Apart from the brief watered smile upon meeting, his face held the expression of mild dissatisfaction. Perhaps he was an ex-boxer and needed a good work-out to relieve excess tension. His ears did indeed look rather cauliflowered.

“Are you sure you didn’t leave it in the park?”

It had been a good ten seconds since he had been standing there, he was bound to turn back within moments. I thought about what car owners do when they have minor accidents, swapping their details and paying for any damage inflicted if at fault. Naturally I wouldn’t have to fork out anything, it wasn’t my dog, I was just the...walker. “Oh dear!”

It was then a rather strange thing happened. It wasn’t only bizarre but a life saver in many regards. Dear Molly suddenly coughed up the little bugger, just like a cat sicks up a fur ball. It popped out, head first and landed with a thud on the pavement. With a tiny bark and brief all body shake, it got to it’s feet and trundled off, slightly bewildered. The owner then looked around and issued an order for the little Pincher to come to heel, which it did. It seemed to be fine, a little damp around the edges but that could be blamed on the excitement. They walked away.

On later retrospection I couldn’t quite decide whether the claws had gone down the wrong way or if Molly had purely been unable to find the little pup’s arse and had opted for a good swilling instead, without ever intending to actually consume. Whatever the reason, I was heartily relieved.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Norbert and his little Miniature Pincher, Rudi, had an antagonistic relationship. The little dog was a source of constant embarrassment to the former bricklayer and amateur boxer who prided himself on his masculinity. His wife had recently insisted that he take Rudi for walks in the morning after her arthritis had became a problem. Forever hoping that by keeping the mutt off the leash, it would fall down a drain or be eaten by a Doberman, he was constantly being disappointed when it was still around upon reaching home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Emil: A jog in the Tiergarten

2006-04-21T21:51:00.000+02:00

It belonged to the man who died last year, just beside the lake. I thought at first it was a pair of discarded socks but on closer inspection I saw it was a white headband, used by joggers. He had keeled over whilst training for the Berlin Marathon. His wife was always telling him, not to push too hard, not to go overboard but he never listened. He wanted to win despite being over 65. Every day, he had completed sit-ups followed by press-ups followed by intensive running around the paths of the Tiergarten. Often he had felt pangs of pain in his chest but had cursed them aside in irritation. Later he had visualised the looks on the faces of his dissenters when he crossed the finishing line, victorious.

I picked it up, from beneath the Elderberry bush. It was dirtied, the skeletal frames of long dead leaves clung to the cotton fibres. I don’t know how I knew that he had died, it was before I had arrived in Berlin, I just knew, don’t ask why. Perhaps it had been the look on the old mans face, standing in the thicket a few feet away. An expression of sadness mixed with guilt.

“The heart had given way you see” he said, “too much cholesterol, filling the arteries over the years”. A slight whimsical smile briefly appeared.

It had been a sunny afternoon when it had happened. He had been running for nearly an hour and was about to head home, when his legs went from under him. Sprawled on the concrete path, dazed and confused, he had suddenly felt the terrible wrenching from within his body. Never before had he felt pain so bad. Minutes later he was convulsing, soon after that the windows of his eyes were drawn closed.

Somehow in the wretched throws of death, he had taken off the headband and tossed it to the side. Here it now was, in my hands.

“The wife always made sure that was worn, she said she didn’t want sweat pouring onto the carpet” said the old man in the thicket.

I was tired, the warm Spring air mixed with the long walk had brought on a mild back ache. There was a bench nearby but it was covered in bird shit and didn’t look inviting.

“May as well set off home” I said, “What do you want me to do with this?” holding up the headband.

The little sparrows were playing amongst the branches of the trees and rustling noises were coming from inside the bushes nearby, perhaps squirrels or rats. The old man in the thicket didn’t reply, he stared longingly towards the exit of the park, silent.

“No marathons for me” I said to myself, as I walked back along Altonaer Strasse, the thought of running for miles and miles and not even finishing in the top 100 certainly didn’t sound like my cup of tea. I had discarded the headband where I had found it ... after all, no point in taking it, not being a runner myself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Emil had been born in 1940, in the Rixdorf area of Berlin. In his younger days he had been a competent sportsman, narrowly missing selection for the 1964 Olympics Games. Later in life, partly as a result of not representing his country, then East Germany, he had let his health slip. For years his wife tried to cut down the cigarettes he smoked and the fatty foods he ate but to no avail until she had suggested regaining some fitness and self-esteem by entering the Berlin Marathon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(photo taken by Beaman)

Berta: Shampoo and rinse in Berlin

2006-04-20T20:14:00.000+02:00

I’d never seen a dog in a hairdressers before. I might be wrong but I don’t think animals are even allowed in British ones. There he sat, next to where the customers hang their coats, drooling. Yes, there was a pool of it underneath his mouth. Frank was his name, Frank the big-boned drooling Rotweiller. I think the owner said “Don’t worry, he’s harmless” but my German isn’t perfect, he could well have been giving the warning, “Don’t pat his head son, he’ll ‘ave yer arm off in a jiffy”. Erring on the side of caution therefore, I refrained from touching. After hanging up my coat I went to take a seat, out of range of any stray leash. Five minutes later, my pulse was to rise again but for a very different reason.

This was the very first time I had visited this particular establishment having before frequented the Turkish barbers around the corner from my flat. Tiring of routine I had decided to try a German one instead. Now one would think, that after having one’s hair cut by an ex-sheep shearer from Turkey (seriously!) and having gone through the very Anatolian ‘flaming of the ear hairs’ procedure that nothing in a German hairdressers could cause any anxiety. How wrong!

My neck. That was what I was worried about the most when I first cast eyes on her. She had arm muscles the size of logs and shoulders as broad as the River Spree was wide. Weight lifter didn’t even come into it. The sleeves on her dark jumper were rolled up, exposing an array of black tattoos from wrists to upper triceps. They were like the ones worn by Neo-Nazis but without the hateful symbols. She wore heavy make-up on her beefy face and her blonde hair was tied up in a knot on top of her head.

She wasn‘t smiling, not at all, when she came my way, looking to see who was next. With hope in my heart, I glanced sideways at a frail elderly lady and beckoned for her to go first. I am after all a British gentleman and ladies must always take priority. She was having none of it though and after a polite smile hid behind a magazine. I nodded and stood up.

As we walked over to the wash basin where I was to be shampooed and rinsed, I thought of the times when I had lazily taken the bus instead of walking, or sat in front of the television instead of going for a jog. How I would regret all these things after ‘Muscles’ here had had her way with me. I imagined being pinned back over the basin whilst her strong bear-like hands massaged my scalp until my eyes rolled back into my skull. With slight relief I remembered there was a Red Cross station a few doors away.

The warm water trickled over my head, large soft fingers eased through my wet hair with gentleness and care, soothing my mind and body. The meditative rhythm of her hands tenderly at work led my eyes to close and my breath to deepen. I wanted it to go on forever but she soon stopped, dried and then pointed to a vacant chair in front of a mirror. In the same way she had washed, she also cut. I barely felt her knuckles sliding past my ears or any tugging or pushing. I watched her in the reflection of the glass and observed visually the gliding, almost beautiful, movements of her colossal body. Her expression remained constant throughout, that of a woman in control, at one with her work. She never smiled but her eyes were glowing, like those of a child dancing on a sunny beach.

Within 15 minutes she had finished and I left happy, giving her a healthy tip on the way out.

“Auf Wiedersehen”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Berta was born in 1976 in Berlin-Steglitz. After completing her education she chose to work in a tattoo parlour, having been inspired by watching tattooed American wrestlers on TV. Tiring of working with people in pain, she eventually chose hair dressing as a more preferable career. In the future she hopes to set-up her own hair salon, much to the delight of her parents and the owner of the Rottweiler, who last week became her fiancé.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gunthilde: Happy Easter

2006-04-18T20:17:00.000+02:00

Huffing like a horse in labour she was whilst fuming behind her cash till. Dyed copper hair flowed like curtains in the wind from her red Churchillian face. She was exasperated with a faulty payment card a customer had given her. Three, four, five times she slid the card through the machine, each time it failed. On the first attempt, she let out a slight puff of annoyance, on the second attempt, she rolled her eyes, on the third attempt, the wasp had well and truly been swallowed. By the fourth attempt she was tutting like a school mistress, then on the fifth and final attempt, she let out a vociferous cry of frustration as if the Roman Legions had finally subdued her battle axe.

The poor customer was looking rather pale and anxious. She was slight in build, with short dark hair. One swipe of the angry vixen’s arm could have decapitated her on the spot. There was a long queue forming behind this scene and I could feel the awareness of this fact very much on the mind of the worried lady.

“It’s not working!” said the flame haired woman, constructing herself into a pose of distain by looking directly forwards into space with an acidic expression.

The customer then questioned whether her machine might not be in order.

“It’s very much in order!” came the acrid reply. This was followed up by a look of condescending surprise at the shopper behind.

The customer dithered, unsure which way to pay.

“Cash is still a viable way of payment” came another reply.

And so it was, the lady paid with notes and coins, thereby ending the bottleneck that had been slowly growing. The huffing subsided and the red face was diluted to a creamier complexion. The customer finished filling her bags with food and departed relieved but not before a friendly “Happy Easter” was given from the woman behind the till.

It was interesting to observe that the next couple of customers went without the formalities of cash card payments and instead went the old fashioned route of paper and shrapnel. The woman was not for aggravating.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gunthilde was born in Berlin in 1956, the daughter of a Taxi driver. At the age of 15 she left school and tried her hand at postal work, in the local young offenders institution, after being convicted of a number of serious assaults on traffic wardens. Throughout her life she moved between prison and her parents home in Moabit. At the age of 45, she was booked into a Yoga class by the authorities in an attempt to rehabilitate her. When this succeeded she eventually found work on the tills in a supermarket, finally finding some stability and purpose.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alenie: Small act of kindness in a big world

2006-04-18T09:35:00.000+02:00

"Small is the new big because small gives you the flexibility to change the ...."

I couldn't help but overhear the conversation of two city slickers walking along just in front, on Potsdamer Strasse. The well worn cliché of advertising agents and business executives had never before garnered any ponderous thought on my part, as had been the way with similar ambiguous ‘we want your money’ slogans. Indeed if it hadn’t been for a chance sighting earlier that day my indifference to the phrase would still be intact.

She had been no taller than 5 foot and probably a couple of inches less. A very small women indeed but not a dwarf or the more politically correct term, ‘little person’. She was of sound proportions and her gait rather attractive. I guessed from the face, a Cambodian or Thai, in her early 20s, pretty visage but with badly crooked teeth. As she strolled along, I noticed people turning to look, perhaps a little surprised by her diminutive frame. Her walk was fast and agile, as though she had been trained as a gymnast, her head was held high and her back was straight. Weaving in amongst the crowds of pedestrians, she was almost like a child, playing hide-and-seek between forest trees or like a feather floating through the reeds on a fast flowing river. I was fascinated by the little figure as it confidently strode amid people nearly twice its size.

Then she came across the old beggar. He was sitting against a wall, holding out a plastic drinking cup in the hope of a sprinkling of loose change from passers-by. Most people walk past such a figure, hoping not to make eye contact and be confronted with the humanity behind the pleading gaze. This was not the case with her. She slowed her pace and gently drifted towards the beggar and knelt down in front of him. Out of her bag she took a few coins and placed them in the cup, then she took hold of the weathered hands of the old man and clasped them together between her delicate fingers. She looked directly into the eyes, not wondering who was watching or what was going on around her, just caring for the health and well being of the forgotten life before her. His eyes lowered, perhaps unable to comprehend the kindness being shown. She stayed there for a good two minutes before standing, saying a few words, then walking slowly away back into the wilderness of the rush hour. I lost sight of her within seconds.

I don't know whether 'small is the new big' but a small woman gave a big gift to a lonely man out on the street that day. She gifted him with the age old human need, that of the basic acknowledgment of one's existence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Alenie was the daughter of the Cambodian ambassador to Berlin. She had lived in Germany for 5 years, in which time she had learnt a little German, mainly through reading a translation of The Little Prince written by the French writer, Antoine de Saint Exupery. Due to her Buddhist background she had gained knowledge of Metta Bhavana, the practice of loving-kindness, which with determination she had cultivated to a high degree. Every weekend she met with other South East Asians resident in the city and performed dances rich in the culture she dearly missed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Artur: Coughs and Growls

2006-04-15T13:12:00.000+02:00

A wooden table.
Mildew growing up the legs.
Unvarnished, stained, cracked.
A white cup, discoloured inside, also cracked.
Sits by a fist.
The aged skin, peeling, dry.
A voice, like a roaring engine, cries out.
Bellowing with rage
A coughing fit, then more...
...more rage, more cursing, more shaking.
He sits at the table. His crimson face creased with crisscrossing lines. Eyes wide, fiery like burning cauldrons.
He says: Damn you, damn you to hell!
Coughing fills the air. Hacking, bronchial, lingering.
The cigarette smoke spirals like leaves in a gale.
He says: You stupid whore!
He wants to die but he doesn't know it, he clings to life like a rabid dog, sick, in pain but bound by the chains of existence.
A window is open. Cool air floats in.
Grey pyjamas, creased and sullied, conceal a collapsing body, once strong.
He says: You're leaving me to rot!
The courtyard outside echoes with the grunts, the growls, the unrelenting coughing.
Rising upwards, escaping.
A cloth dries the infuriated lips.
He wants to dig a grave, to feel the shovel under his grasp but he knows it's hopeless.
He wants to bury the hours, the weeks and months he has left.
He wants to submerge the memories that haunt him in the dark hours.
He says: Get out woman! Get out! Out!!
A radio is turned on, soft classical music ripples through the air.
More coughing, wheezing, sounds of sickness.
A soft female voice is heard.
It floats like a feather, dancing hand in hand, with the notes of the flute.
She says: I've made you some tea dear, just the way you like it.
The soft sallow hand touches the clenched veined knuckles.
There is silence.
Then there is coughing.
Later there is quiet weeping.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Artur is a dying man. A 68 year-old, with a loving wife, who dotes on him whilst fondly remembering the energetic and loving days of their youth. He is a neighbour of mine, the coughs and growls often faintly reaching my window. Rarely does he leave his flat, rarely does she get time to rest. She lives for him. He lives because he has to.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Afet: Igniting Prussian Passion

2006-04-13T23:14:00.000+02:00

Indian males are well known for their infatuation with the fuller female figure.
American and Samoan males don’t have much choice in the matter...
... and German males?

She was a Turkish belly-dancer, I was sure of it. There was that air about her and the girth to satisfy any hot blooded Maharashtran. She boarded the train somewhere between Franz Neumann Platz and Lindauer Allee on U-8, underneath the streets of the Reinickendorf district of Berlin. She wore all-black attire which consisted of a shawl, plain trousers and a light figure hugging jumper. The lady was neither attractive nor unsightly, something in between. She wore heavy make-up and large silver round earrings which extended outwards from her tightly curled brown hair.

Prior to her arrival, I had been sitting facing two middle-aged, suited gentleman on the opposing side of the carriage. Our eyes, as customary in such public situations, had rested politely on a window, floor, wall map or one of the info-TV screens that hang from the ceiling. There had not been that much else to look at, save for a couple of French tourists busily discussing the refreshing fruity acidity of the Weissburgunder wine made in Eastern Germany.

The doors had opened and in had strutted the Anatolian femme. She was a heavy girl yet she wore it well, her confidence clearly apparent. In one hand she held a mobile phone and whilst busy typing digits, had positioned herself against one of the partitioning glass panels, a few feet away from the two gentleman.

During this entrance, I had noted the expressions of the pair opposite. It would suffice to say that not even a border collie could show so much tongue even on the hottest of days. Their eyes flickered from her hefty buttocks up to her corpulent boobs and back again in a frenzy of Prussian passion. Like synchronised swimmers, their heads moved in unison and then stayed fixed, facing where she came to rest. For the next ten minutes, the lusting duo could barely look away, their eyes unblinking. I was sure that if she was indeed a belly-dancer and had suddenly decided to shimmer her shoulders and swivel her hips, the poor chaps would have needed urgent hospitalisation.

I got off the train a little later, wondering how long they would be caught up in her web.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Afet was a 28 year-old Turk who had emigrated to Germany with her family at the age of 10. She was married with 2 children and was returning home from her work at an old peoples home. Her job gave her the satisfaction and self-respect that she had long craved for during her youth. She was a very popular member of staff at the home, especially amongst the elderly gents.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hilde: The Sleeping Pensioner

2006-04-12T13:53:00.000+02:00

Dictionary definition of sleep: A natural periodic state of rest for the mind and body, in which the eyes usually close and consciousness is completely or partially lost, so that there is a decrease in bodily movement and responsiveness to external stimuli.

I had assumed that people usually slept horizontally and in the few cases where sleep walking occurred, it was in quiet, night-time, solitary environments. So I was rather confused the other day when I encountered a sleeping pensioner and her friend walking down a busy street in broad daylight. To clear matters let me say first that I was in my normal state of sobriety, so senses were not impeded nor was I experiencing any common symptoms of insanity, though this of course is open to interpretation.
The two ladies were dressed smartly, their silk scarves topping off warm winter coats and their black handbags securely harnessed to their arms. They were daintily ambling along, the awake one of the two, with a contented expression upon her face was looking into the shop windows they passed. The sleeping one, was ... well, sleeping. Her body was reasonably erect and her legs finely coordinated but her eyes were closed and her head was tilting slightly forwards.
My eyesight is not perfect but I had time to study the pair from a little way off as I walked towards them and so it was not a momentary lapse in consciousness on her part but a good 10 second snooze at the very least. I was sure I could see the movements of her mouth associated with the action of snoring. The cheeks expanded ever so slightly and light gusts of breath were being exhaled. I’m not one to stare, so when they were very close, I looked away pretending nothing was amiss but I was indeed, intrigued.
Were my eyes playing tricks? Was she really asleep? ... or deep in meditation?
I’ve heard tales that some Yogi masters can sleep whilst in a standing position but that I took with a pinch of salt. Now I have to wonder. Had this dear elderly lady spent time in the Far East, learning the ways of forest monks? Had she found ways to sleep whilst hanging from her feet up in the branches of rubber trees? or slept on beds of nails or snakes!?!? Maybe she had found all the secrets of life and the universe thereby falling into complete and utter boredom and apathy.

On looking back, I believe it would have been a little inappropriate to bow down before her, wake her and then asked her for some insights into human existence. One must keep some decorum.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Herta and Hilde were twin sisters, born sometime in the early 1930s. They lived together in a large refined flat in a well-to-do street in the Charlottenburg area of Berlin. Both being widows, they had decided a couple of years ago to live together. Herta’s husband had founded a successful trading company and the resulting prosperity had resulted in a comfortable and care-free life in which to bring up her four children. Hilde’s husband had been a Lutheran Pastor of medium means. His habit of extolling the ‘word of God’ on their daily walks, in preparation for later sermons had led Hilde to develop an uncanny gift for sleep-walking in any given environment.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Man at the Window

2006-04-10T14:45:00.000+02:00

It was last Autumn when I first noticed him. A balding man with solid features, leaning restively out of his first floor window which looked out onto a pleasant tree-lined street. His apartment block, an ugly 1950s edifice faced the beginning of a further street leading off at a 90 degree angle. Most people here don't look upwards when walking in public, hardly surprising given the amount of dog excrement found on Berlin pavements. Few people therefore would have discerned his presence slightly above their heads.
He watched people as they walked underneath, his head swivelling as passers-by toddled past. There was never emotion on his face, just neutral observation.
I had first detected his existence when nervously gazing up at gathering rain clouds. His nostrils, I had noticed, were large and out of sync, one being oval in shape and the other being almost square. Days later I passed the spot again and noticed his gaze fixed on two Turkish youngsters dressed in all-white Bronx-ghetto attire. Obviously he liked the fresh air I concluded.
Over the next few weeks and months I noticed him in the same pose an awful lot, at varying times of the day. What was he thinking? Was he waiting for something...or someone?
I hoped he was happy but it didn't seem natural for a man to be at his window so often. Maybe he needed to stand out in the street himself and gaze up at his empty window, to join with the actors, on the corporeal stage of life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Uwe was born in 1940. A dreamer and a depressive, he idled his hours away by standing at his window unconsciously searching for some kind of liberation. He lived alone, his wife having left years ago unable to cope with his illness and inertia. The prescribed drugs he took had taken their toll on his health and thus he found it difficult to walk any further than the local market. He was scared of being alone and sought light consolation by frequently observing the comings and goings taking place out on the street below.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Queuing in Berlin

2006-04-09T19:17:00.000+02:00

There I sat, on a Sunday afternoon in the northern suburbs of Berlin, waiting patiently for a bus. I was the first one there and took it for granted that I had probably just missed the earlier one by a few minutes. The weather was rather cheery for early Spring and the surroundings were charming enough so I couldn't complain.
Five minutes a later a troupe of elderly ladies came slowly my way, chatting vibrantly amongst themselves. They had such sweet faces, the type of grannies every little boy could wish for. They took their positions next to me.
A few minutes later, a trio of well-dressed teenagers came strolling along and stood a few feet away from the main shelter. Following them came a couple of middle-aged women, one carrying a smiling toddler.
It was a seemingly amiable gathering of people and my thoughts soon turned to how similar British and German people really were. Fifteen minutes later, that was to change.
Along came the yellow double-sectioned, single-decker bus. In a relaxed but assertive way I stood up and walked towards the kerb where the bus was now coming to a halt. With my hand in my pocket reaching for the ticket, I suddenly found myself jostled to the side by one of the women, as she boarded to my left. Before I had time to regroup, on got the toddler-carrying woman as well, the little child whooping with delight. 'My gosh!' I thought inwardly, 'that was rude'.
More was to follow, this time to my right, where the three teenagers were bundling on board.
'Well, this is just not cricket!' I said to myself, 'weren't they taught how to..." the thought pattern was suddenly broken when I found myself being squeezed between four small elderly ladies. Like a group of kittens rushing for milk, the grannies climbed on board without a moments hesitation.
I was the last to climb aboard, having been the first to arrive. My mistake had been to assume that the system of queuing, held sacrosanct in Great Britain, was existing in such a civilised country like that of Germany. Over the coming months I was to discover that this was not the case at all, at least when public transport was concerned.
A phenomenon I have grown used to but not one I am wanting to adopt.