R&R: Rest and Research
(Marie-Mail entry #40)
BERLIN, GERMANY
JUNE 11 TO 15
I tried to hit the ground running. I had sublet an apartment blind over the internet. Wohn Agentur Freiraum did well, setting me up in a 650 square foot furnished apartment in multi-cultural Kreuzberg, for only 650DM ($295) a month. My plan was to spend a month in Berlin, resting (ha!), retrenching, gearing up, and planning for Africa.
Marie's Berlin digs
Frau Goder owned the apartment, and fate brought me into her shoes (and bed, and kitchen) for five weeks. She was on holiday and I never met her, but she appeared to be a quirky, struggling artist, living a non-traditional life in a five-story walk-up in an area full of artists, immigrants, and drug addicts.
Frau Goder's
In short, serendipity had plopped me down in the middle of my old New York City life. All that was missing was my computer, my music collection, some comic books, and lactose-free milk.
Marie in new flat (photo by Mom)
Most of these were easily found. There was a comic book store around the corner. Posh German department store KaDeWe sold "Lacto-frei Milch." Using the realtor's address, my mother sent over a box containing CD's and computer parts. She was bringing the laptop herself in a few weeks.
Frau Goder's life was, in fact, more like my East Village life than my actual life had been when I'd deserted it. Gentrification had set in at home, and the children's shoe store had been replaced by a "for rent" sign. The Che Guevara bookstore had become an eclectic nouvelle Latin cuisine restaurant, and the combination hardware store/salon had turned into a jazzy bistro. Even the former Eastern European opera singer with Turrett's Syndrome, once renowned for spending days (and nights) standing on Avenue B screaming about life in America, had disappeared along with low rents.
Kreuzberg was like Avenue B circa 1992 (sans crime), substituting Turkish immigrants for Puerto Ricans. The only difference was the toilet, which, like many I'd seen since Mongolia, was backwards. That is, the hole for the water is at the front of the bowl just under a porcelain shelf that led my friend Rai to inquire as to whether some people like to examine their waste before it is flushed away.
the old city (photo by Mom)
The first few days were a struggle -- my German-speaking abilities are weak, and I had to find the supermarket, a gym, the coffee roaster, the Kenyan Embassy (for a visa), Citibank, American Express, and the post office. I learned my way around the subway, located the Yellow Pages, and found a German dictionary. I quickly realized that one cybercafe had free access ("Happy Hour") until noon, and after that the cheapest rates were at EasyEverything, the McDonald's of internet access.
The "Tourist Information" office at Europa Center became my most reliable source of aid. They didn't know the answers to most of my questions, but they knew German, and could look up answers in the right places. I asked them everything, from where to buy a pumpkin (for cooking pumpkin curry) to where to find a gynecologist (a long, funny story that should make it to "Marie's World Tour Unplugged" if I ever write it), and they answered unflinchingly.
By the time my UK friends John and Rachel arrived on Friday, I was almost all set up, and nearly over my embarrassing excitement over being able to brush my teeth with tap water.
JUNE 15 TO 17
John and Rai took a taxi from Tegel Airport.
As then neared Kreuzberg, the surroundings became dodgier and artsier. They knew they must be getting close.
When the taxi driver waved his hand at the neighborhood and said, "no good," they knew they'd arrived.
Laughing, they assured the taxi driver that all was well. John and Rai were used to my choices and would probably make similar ones in my place. They didn't even complain about the five stories of stairs they had to climb to reach me -- unlike the FedEx man later.
John and Rai play sightseers
We spent a few days being bonafide, full-fledged sightseers. We went up the Reichstag Dome, sat in coffee shops along Kurfurstendamm, and ate at fashionable Thai restaurants in hotspot Mitte. We had a traditional German breakfast in the rain, and took a fantastic bicycle tour from East to West Berlin, during which the other tourists were surprised to learn that we were together. We had never thought about it before as no one ever looked twice at us in New York, but the Germans assured us that an Irishman, a Chinese-Englishwoman, and an American together was an unusual combination.
John on bike tour
It was John who managed to find us something weirder than ourselves.
Rai got the small bike
We spent Friday night having drinks at "Trinkteufel," a heavy metal bar under Frau Goder's apartment, and then slept in on Saturday. We went hunting for a non-German brunch -- meaning we wanted pancakes, eggs, and bagels instead of salami and cheese. We passed by the comic store.
Marie and Rachel
John, who is a well-know comic book artist, realized he'd done a signing there just last November. We stopped in to say hello. The clerk told him about an event that was happening later, and he promised to stop back by.
All Berlin bookstores were staying open late, to boost interest in books. German store hours are conservative, and shops lock up tight at six p.m. on weekdays, four on Saturdays, and they don't open at all on Sundays. The bookstores wouldn't be selling books tonight, but they would be hosting open-houses and browsing sessions.
The comic store was taking it a step further and had a Canadian singer named Peaches performing.
inside the Reichstag Dome (photo by Mom)
We arrived at the comic store just before midnight. A group of drunk revellers stood outside. Inside, there was a giant cardboard "computer." If you put the connected pan on your head, the computer would read your brainwaves and render a visualization of your thoughts, on paper in crude black marker. As we watched, a woman's smile turned to a frown when she pulled a drawing of a plain square from the out tray.
John chatted with the store owner, while Rai and I were cornered by a drunk fellow who was "very nice when sober." We were both starting to look for the exit when Peaches came on.
A minute later we were all three eyeing the exit, but were also riveted by the ridiculous spectacle unfolding before us.
Peaches was an attractive woman in her early 20's , dressed in an unappealing drab, gray jumpsuit. With great seriousness, she turned out her boombox and launched into something she called "Honky-Tonk-A-Oke." She sang karaoke along with country classics, in a flat, off-key voice. She first slaughtered "Coal Miner's Daughter," and then moved on to desecrate "Tennessee Flattop Box."
Peaches had also brought an overhead projector, and as she sang, she showed her own drawings, illustrating the songs. The drawings were on transparent plastic sheets, and she'd drawn corresponding pictures on other transparencies. She plopped the two pieces down together and moved one, creating crude animations as she sang.
In other words, she could move a character's tear down a cheek, or a hand on a guitar. It was clever, long, and weird.
"What made her think to do this at all, much less in public?" I wondered to Rai, who was as mystified by it as I was.
John and Rai and I stared at this car wreck until it was over, and then the Berliners around us clapped, cheered, and begged for more. Peaches gave them more, whipping out a drawing of Dolly Parton with predictably oversized breasts and belting out "Jolene, please don't take my man."
When this fascinating debacle as over, we took our leave. What possessed Peaches? And more importantly, what possessed the Germans to egg her on with no irony?
I loved Berlin. What a strange place.
JUNE 17 TO 21
John and Rai left me on Sunday, and I walked alone through a street fair in the rain. It was always raining in Berlin.
I spent the rest of the week researching cameras on Photo.net, and finally ordered a twelve-ounce Canon Rebel body (and kit), and a separate 75-300 lightweight(ish) lens from Adorama.com. My point-and-shoot had served me loyally, but safari animals were unlikely to walk right up to me and say "cheese."
I also needed to carry my sleeping bag, binoculars, Thermarest, flashlight, mosquito net, and waterproof bag to Africa with me. These additions would take up at least half the space in my backpack. I needed to get rid of most of my gear and repack.
I visited every outdoor store in Berlin in my search for lighter gear and English-language guidebooks. I needed to mail-order some stuff but I didn't have an address, as Frau Goder seemed to have stopped her mail for the duration of her holiday.
Using a tourist map, I located a nearby post office and went to inquire about renting a p.o. box for the month. The clerks all found this amusing, perhaps because they are rented by the year, or perhaps because I was just amusing in general as I butchered the German language. One of them wrote down the post office's address, and gave me instructions on receiving "poste restante" in Germany.
"You can get your mail here," explained the clerk.
"Even a small package?"
She turned and asked the other clerk in German, and then told me in English, "yes, a small package is no problem."
I ordered a guidebook from Footprints Handbooks and some fiction from Amazon.de, happy to have solved that problem.
Over the next few days, I got my hair repaired (bad color in Estonia), sent my passport to the Tanzania Embassy (still in Bonn) using American Express as a return address (they don't accept packages), and started to get vaccinations at a travel medicine clinic. And I was researching Africa whenever I could get to an internet cafe. I was looking forward to getting my laptop and doing all this from Kreuzberg.
JUNE 21 TO 25
Lynne (last seen in Heaven and Ho, Marie-mail #20) dropped by for the weekend. She'd been in Germany on business and caught a train to Berlin on Thrusday afternoon. My mom and her boyfriend Frank, meanwhile, combined a visit to see Frank's new grandson at a US Army base in Belgium with a short visit to Frau Goder's place.
Reichstag (photo by Mom)
The first thing to do in Berlin, for any tourist, is to go up the Reichstag Dome.
Reichstag (photo by Mom)
The Reichstag is the Capitol of German. It was devastated in World War II and rebuilt later when Germany was reunited. The glass dome on top contrasts sharply with the marble below, a not-so-subtle reminder that the Reichstag is not the original, nor do the German people want it to be.
Reichstag Dome (photo by Mom)
Admission to the Reichstag is free, costing only an x-ray of your bag. An elevator whisks visitor past the parliamentary chambers and up to the dome.
Reichstag Dome (photo by Mom)
From there, you get your first view of Berlin from above, and can then climb the spiral walkway to the top of the dome.
Reichstag Dome
Looking at Berlin, Mom, Frank, and Lynne, had the same reaction that John, Rai and I had the week before.
"Wow, look at all the cranes."
them's a lotta cranes (photo by Mom)
Berlin, once separated into East and West by a cement wall, is now divided by a wall of cranes. For a decade, it has been a city under construction. Looking west, we saw a finished city of buildings and parks. To the east, the landscape is covered with building sites.
plastic-covered Brandenburg Gate (photo by Mom)
The Brandenburg Gate sits just below the Reichstag, but it was covered in plastic, or a year of renovations. The area just east of the gate, once No-Man's Land, had been empty when I'd visited in '92, but was now a buzzing hive of embassy and hotel activity.
On Saturday, we planned to take a city bus tour, but first had to stop by the Citibank ATM for some Deutsch Marks.
We got off the subway and walked smack into a crowd of plastic bears and drag queens.
Berlin bears (photo by Mom)
I expected the bears. They had materialized recently, in the way that plastic cows had suddenly shown up on the streets of Chicago and New York. Local artists were invited to decorate life-sized plastic bears, and the Berlin bear was now on every corner.
Christopher Street parade
The drag queens caught me by surprise. They were there to see a parade. Mom and I lost Lynne and Frank when a man in a skimpy tiger suit got between us, his tail creating a diversion. We met again at Citibank, and agreed that perhaps we needed to get back on the subway and out of the crowd.
everyone loves a parade (photo by Mom)
We took the train a stop further, where we ran into the parade itself. There was no bus tour, as the streets were closed to traffic. We sat back and watched the parade, which turned out to be the Christopher Street Parade -- sort of a Berlin version of "Gay Pride." Men and women in tight g-strings and glamorous dresses danced happily on floats. Some threw out condoms to the crowd. Some dressed as the Village People, sponsored by Burger King. We watched for a while and continued our sightseeing, taking to the river boat tour in lieu of the boat.
boat trip (photo by Mom)
Lynne left on Sunday, while the rest of us went to see the touring Shaolin Monks.
Mom, Marie, Lynne
The show was, in essence, the same as the show in Shaolin. But it was dressed up for the international audience, and there was a long narrative that we could follow in spite of its being in German. A little boy goes to Shaolin Temple to learn martial arts, and all of the different styles are demonstrated, and he becomes a martial artist too.
Afterwards, we were waiting for the subway train home, when the entire troupe marched into the station. They were quite a sight, clad in their flowing orange robes. I managed to get out a "nei ha" to the little kid, but momentarily forgot every other word of Chinese that I had learned.
future Shaolin master
JUNE 25 TO JULY 14
Mom and Frank left a day after Lynne did. Mom left me with my laptop, but had accidentally sent along the wrong floppy connector and no a/c cord. She'd mail it to me Global Priority, in care of the post office, not to worry.
Mom and Frank
Things started to get frustrating, and the thrill of Berlin wore off.
I got my passport back from the Tanzanian Embassy, and took it to the Ethiopian Embassy for a visa.
"Are you a resident of Germany?" asked the attendant.
"No," I explained. "I am a tourist on a year-long trip around the world."
"Sorry, you must get your visa in your home country." That was obviously going to be a problem, as I needed my passport and couldn't send it to Washington.
"Telespargel" (photo by Mom)
Then, I ran into problems at the post office. I had been going twice a week to check for my mail, and it was never there. Finally, I was worried and got insistent.
"Please, can you check again?" I asked.
The grumpy postal employee at the counter got grumpier and said something (in German) along the lines of "I already checked, get lost."
"Es ist ein kleines packet," I botched the language but he got the point.
"Kein packet! (blahblahblahblah) paket!" he said.
Concerned, I turned to leave. An English-speaking customer stopped me.
"I think there is some confusion," he said apologetically. "This post office does not accept packages. You must go to the post office on Skalitzer Street."
Oh.
I went to the post office on Skalitzer Street, where I learned that "postlagernd," the German version of "Poste Restante," does not accept packages.
"But the woman at the other post office told me to use that address!"
"I am sorry that you were given wrong information. I cannot help you."
I left in tears, knowing that I was never going to get my books, and had seen the last of my stray computer pieces, which were irreplaceable due to their age. My laptop would not get used during this stopover in German, or ever again if the package didn't find its way back to the States.
Amazon.de checked into the matter and found my package at a "post office near the one they had sent it to."
Berlin Wall memorial (photo by Mom)
I proceeded to waste time visiting every post office near me at least twice. The books never materialized.
Then, FedEx brought me my camera but charged me $150 import duty.
"Can I get that back?" I asked, trying to figure out how to get out of paying import duty on something I was never going to use in Germany and was simply going to a week later.
"Sure," said FedEx's import rep on the telephone. "Just pay it, keep the receipts, and you can get it back at the airport."
I took all my receipts out to the airport to see how this worked when I was taking a ship instead of a plane. The man at the Value-Added Tax desk gave me some distressing news. The import duty was totally different than the VAT, and I had to talk to Customs.
I went around the corner to Customs. The men there were nice and helpful, and told me that I should never have paid an import duty. FedEx should have told me to fill out a "Temporary Import Certificate."
"So how do I get a refund?" I asked.
This stumped the Customs officials. They knew it could be done, and they knew I should not have paid the duty, but were not sure how to rectify the situation.
They gave me the name and address of the main Customs office, and I took the train there.
The Customs officials there called around, found out my case number, and gave me a bit of bad news.
"Your files are in Frankfurt. You must go there."
That was impossible, as I was leaving town in a short amount of time. Instead, I decided that FedEx should fix this since they had given me misinformation in the first place.
Their import office was not helpful. After first telling me to get my money back at the airport, they back-pedalled and told me that FedEx doesn't do temporary import certificates. I should have hired a third party.
"And how exactly would I have known this if FedEx did not tell me?" I asked frostily.
"Ma'am, I suggest you call our export office. They deal with getting refunds all the time," said the import expert, all too happy to pass the buck on something that was clearly the fault of the import office. After trying to force him to deal with the situation and having him reiterate that he was a clueless idiot, I hung up on him.
The export office gave me a crucial but disheartening bit of information.
You are now entering the American sector
"If the amount is under 1,000 DM, we advise our clients to not bother. It takes months and you must be available for several meetings with German Customs. Since you will not be here, it is impossible."
Everyone admitted that the money was mine and I should not have paid it. But there was no way to get it back if I insisted on leaving for Africa in a few days, which I did. I fired off a nasty letter to German FedEx, and expect to hear nothing back.
Still, I couldn't blame Berlin for all my woes. It had supplied me with U.S. cash, traveler's checks, hazelnut-vanilla coffee, an American Express card that wouldn't expire in Ethiopia, and some rabies vaccines that still made my shoulder ache. The U.S. Embassy had given me a limited six-month passport that would get me out of Germany and into South Africa while my real passport went to the Ethiopian Embassy in Washington D.C.
But the challenge of trying to do simple things in a foreign country had tired me out. I just wanted to go home, but home was thousands of miles away and belonged to someone else now.
Clearly, I needed to get moving.
NEXT: on the road again! Let's go to Africa!
