berlin-day 3

As you do first thing in the morning, even before you brush your teeth, I woke up. Except this morning I wasn’t alone. Aside from Maggie across the room from me there were also several builders. And the fuckers were drilling away at the insides of my skull. An extremely high-pressure power-shower, head butting my metal bed frame and a couple of paracetamol later and the hangover began to subside. So much so after an hour of waking up I was able to tackle breakfast downstairs in The Circus’ funky coffee shop.

The place was starting to fill up as we got there, but we managed to nab the same seats from the night before. We paid our 4 Euros for the self-acclaimed ‘famous Circus breakfast buffet’ and set about it. Boiled eggs, plastic cheese, orange juice, that processed-meat-stuff-you-ate-as-a-kid-with-an-animals-face-imprinted-on-it-although-they-didn’t-have-anything-on-it-this-time, cereal, natural yogurt, bread and even waffles. It was a fair spread, not sure if it was enough to qualify as famous but still nice all the same. Same as the day before, Maggie snuck out a bread roll in an airplane vomit bad (which I thought was pretty, well, sick) while I just filled my gut with boiled eggs and that processed-meat-stuff-you-ate-as-a-kid-with-an-animals-face-imprinted-on-it-although-they-didn’t-have-anything-on-it-this-time.

As the coffee shop was a small place we had to share our table with a couple of girls, nationality unknown although Maggie thought they might be American. There were the type of girl I’m not that fond of, heavily perfumed and painted, with body hugging clothing, self assured about their own attractiveness and flirt with any males nearby whether they are attracted to them or not. Anyway, one of them had brought to the table with her a large glass bottle with a broad sealed lid, and it looked suspiciously like olive oil to me. Since being a dainty, vulnerable, useless sort of girl she couldn’t get the lid off. She asked several men around the coffee shop if they could do the deed, to no avail.

Eventually my turn came to try. I didn’t particularly want to have a go. Several reasons: 1) because I doubted I’d get it off since 3 or 4 bigger, tougher looking guys couldn’t 2) because I’d spill the crap all over me if I did get it open and 3) it was mainly because they were so bloody rude about asking me. The girl stuck the jar across the table, right in front of Maggie’s face and commanded ‘Open this’. There was no, ‘excuse me’, ‘do you mind’, ‘sorry but could you’ etc. etc. just imperial dictation. So, a bit bewildered and being too polite myself, I had a go and, bugger my parrot, I managed to open it. I received the Queen’s praise of ‘You’re phenomenal’, which I thought was a bit hyperbole for opening a jar. I went back to eating my eggs and that processed-meat-stuff-you-ate-as-a-blah blah blah, while Barbie glopped the fluid into a glass, necking the lot in one.

Once I’d finished stuffing myself and Maggie had enough food stashed into her chunder holder (thank Christ it was an unused one) we signed ourselves out of The Circus to move onto our third and final hostel. This was actually a return to a hostel we’d never stayed in, as weird as that sounds. A train or two later and we were back at Hackescher Markt station and the City Stay hostel. We were welcomed into the City Stay and our room was sorted out for us. The room itself wouldn’t be ready until 2pm, but fortunately they had a baggage storage room downstairs. We paid, chucked our gear into the hold and started our day proper.

Maggie and I had been through Potsdamer Platz countless times since being in Berlin, and we came to an agreement it was almost like Times Square in New York. Not in the sense it’s big, colourful and full of trendy shops, but that no matter where you need to go you always have to pass through the fucking place. We were starting to despise Potsdamer just because we’d seen it so many times, either by rail or accidentally wandering through it. Despite all this we were prepared to return to Potsd…Times Square.

There happens to be a famous film museum we were both keen on seeing. And since we’re both media tits it was not to be missed, even if it meant having to go back there again. So we pushed all prejudice aside and hopped on a U-Bahn to Times Square.

I just realised mid type there was something I was going to talk about in day two, but forgot. If you have persevered all the way through these dissertations of mine and Maggie’s movements, firstly bloody well done and, secondly, you may remember I commented on day one that there didn’t seem to be any security on the train lines. We never saw a ticket barrier or any uniformed train stationy fellows; it appeared to us that it was very easy to travel round the city for free. Another odd aspect of the trains was that most of the carriages were segregated, in the sense that you couldn’t move from one carriage to another unlike most trains here in blighty. Now all that made sense with the undercover police. Several times a man or woman on the train would suddenly come to life, walking down the middle of the train with an ID card, flashing it about and demanding to see everyone’s tickets.

The undercover police are shadowy figures, blending easily into the crowd. They’re not on every train, you never know who it is, and they can strike at any moment. So naturally we named them the Gestapo.

The Gestapo were on our train to Times Square, which is why I suddenly remembered them and added it to this already inflated blog. Sorry about going off track, although saying that you’ve probably all given up reading this by now.

Bastards.

We got to Times Square, hopped off, and had no idea where to go from there. We knew it was in the general vicinity, but that was about it. So like a couple of homing birds (although the term applies more in Maggie’s case since she’s a female), we went back to the Sony Centre. We’d first seen it on day one late at night, now it was daytime and it still looked very impressive in the muddy sunlight of an overcast morning.

As luck would have it the film museum was inside the Sony Tent, several stories up in a big steel and glass jobbie of a building. Excited at the prospect of seeing the editing and other post-pro relics on offer (hopefully a few Zoetrope’s, KEM’s and other kings of the sprocket era) we hopped into a frighteningly fast glass elevator to the third floor. We paid our seven euros entry fee and entered through the…entrance.

N.B. as you may have well guessed by now I’m not terribly prolific, but I can certainly write for King and Country.

After walking down a tight, pitch black corridor we entered the first room, while impressively gaining vertigo at the same time. You couldn’t walk directly through the room; you had to follow a curving pathway past several television screens. Most of the TV’s were concerned with close ups of eyes since, as the entry sign explained, emotional context within an actors eyes is greatly important to an audience’s acceptance and involvement in a film.

How the designers decided that covering every single surface with mirrors would have any correlation with an actors skill is beyond me. When you looked at the wall you could see yourself stretch back round a curve into infinity, when you gazed upwards you’d find yourself staring back, upside down and suspended fifty foot above. If you dared to look down, well that was terrifying, 'specially for me as I spied a bald patch upon my bonce. The reflective, curved pathway didn’t exactly help with your sense of balance either; you felt like you were going to bump into yourself at any given moment. But on reflection (sorry) it was a pretty cool room.

After navigating past a multitude of ourselves, Maggie and I found relief in the next room, furnished with a saner décor. Half-lit, full of active televisions, glass cabinets with slices of post-pro history stored within and interactive screens that never quite seem to work properly. That room was the start and, essentially, the end of the part I was the most keen on seeing, the birth of mechanical aids to film, from cameras to post-pro.

N.B. bit of film history for you; almost all editors at the start of sprocket editing were woman, chosen from their skills at the rotary knitting machines. Bet you didn’t, or care to; know that did you, ay?

Not to say I didn’t enjoy the place, they had a full mock up of Lola’s costume from Lola Rennt (aka Run Lola Run) and I gurgled with excitement when I saw a whole section on Ray Harryhausen. However, the museum was primarily interested in German cinema, namely the international German actress, Dietrich. In fact nearly half the place was about her, from secret love letters to behind-the-scenes footage, and plenty of stills of her in the famous trouser suit.

There was a big section on Fritz Lang and his seminal film Metropolis (coupled with Brazil these two films began my obsession with dystopian cinema) and even a section on the Nazi propaganda machine. If you cared to (and history nut Maggie did care, in fact making a slight fool of herself when she made her excitement vocal) you could watch scenes from famous Nazi films, aimed at destroying the image of the Jewish population. This included the banned but most well known, 'Jud Suss' a film about a Jewish money lender who is cruel, rapes people, eats kittens and generally made to look like a baddy. After an hour or so we had exhausted the museum and decided on a spot of shopping.

On our way out of tent city we spied a very peculiar object on the other side of the road. Berlin is a city full of art, from it’s architecture to statues and even graffiti, which is regarded as a freedom of expression. What we saw was definitely art, although it did throw us for a few seconds. The arse end of a car was sticking out of the ground; the concrete surrounding it chewed up and fragmented, disguising the fakery below. A faux-police cordon surrounded the artwork, with a road sign you’d find familiar if you drove down an ordinary street, placed on the corner. Purpose of the art, nil, cool factor, very.

As so far in Berlin we hadn’t found any dedicated shopping districts, unlike Oxford Street, Covent Gardens, Carnaby, Camden Town and Shoreditch in London. Everything appeared to be spaced out, diluted if you will; even the main street of Berlin had little in the way of shops (unless you wanted to buy a car). However, we did manage to find a small shopping centre next to the Sony Centre, just down from Times Square U-Bahn. Most of the shops inside didn’t appeal a great deal to me, partially from the price, but also because I’m fussy about my clothing style (which everyone I know has told me is a tramp’s wardrobe of choice). Maggie didn’t seem to keen either, so we stopped for lunch at a café-cum-restaurant in the midst of the shopping centre.

For the last couple of days I’d been trying to find somewhere that served bratwurst, a German form of sausage, and now I saw my chance to chow down on one. We sat at a large table in the corner of the restaurant and ordered our meals. I got myself a couple of bratwurst with cold potato salad, reminiscent of a meal an old German friend of mine had once made for me, while Maggie had a jacket potato with cheese and, what seems to be a berlin staple, paprika.

As was the case in The Circus buffet the place started to fill up and we were joined at our table, although this time by a small contingent of middle-aged Italians. One of the men must have had the same craving for sausage as me because he got incredibly excited when my dish arrived, so much so he asked me which one it was on the menu. After our meal we paid up and continued scouring the shops. It was then we found the Ampleman store.

Like England, Berlin has two little fellows to signify when you should cross the road and when you should stay where you are. Unlike England though these little light fellows were wearing bowler hats. These light men, or Ampleman in German, are so popular that over the 40 years of their existence a franchise has been built around them. You can now buy Ampelman sweets, flavoured vodka, sponges, towels, slippers and the obligatory t-shirts, lighters, towels and postcards, all at a premium price. I bought myself a dinky badge with the cooler green Ampleman on it, while Maggie bought one of those postcards that shift images according to your angle of perception.

We left Ampleman and Times Square behind us, and decided on actually going to see Checkpoint Charlie (CC), something we’d been putting off. Ah CC, the most famous small, white painted, sandbagged hut in Berlin. But I’m being flippant; CC was one of the most famous pass gates from East to West Berlin, controlled by the Allied (that comprised of the French, British and American’s). Why specifically this checkpoint is so famous I’m not sure of, I tend to not do any form of investigative revision when I write these things, instead going by what I know.

The checkpoint itself appeared to be in the wrong part of Berlin according to my imagination. Whenever my friends have told me about Berlin and CC I’ve always envisaged it to be in the middle of nowhere, a run down shack surrounded by dilapidated buildings and a couple of info boards detailing it’s significance. I certainly wasn’t expecting to find it in Friedrichstrasse, entrenched within several CC museums, flanked by a couple of blokes fancy-dressed in the uniforms of the opposing sides. But the commercialisation I really should of expected. In front of CC there’s an elevated poster of a young Soviet soldier, yet again significance unknown. The famous signboard with the words ‘You are now leaving the American sector’, written in English, Russian, French and German (oddly enough with the smallest font of them all) stood on one side of the road. If you so wished you could buy the sign on a t-shirt from one of the million street hawkers or ‘museums’.

Following on from CC was the Topography of Terror, an outside permanent exhibition detailing the horrors Berlin inflicted during the Nazi era, and had inflicted against itself during the Soviet occupation.

Before we found the TOT though we found yet more pretty-but-pointless artwork, this time in the shape of a giant cloth ball made from the material they use to build volcanoes and underwater worlds in theme parks. Along with a hot air balloon anchored to the ground that boasted an unbeatable view of Berlin, if you were willing to part with 20 quid.

Across the road from this sight seeing apparatus was the TOT, bordered on one side by a remaining part of the wall. The TOT itself was an odd exhibition, if anything for being open to the elements. Around a decade ago an architect won a competition to construct a building to house the topography; they even began to build it. Then they decided to tear the half finished building down, why exactly they did that I don’t know, although they are apparently still in talks for a new building

The TOT itself didn’t hold too much information; it consisted of wire-suspended info panels, describing the history of numerous Berliner’s who were tortured or made to ‘disappear’ during the Soviet’s reign. Whereas information on Nazi Berlin was scarce.

Once the TOT was experienced, Maggie and I walked down through the streets, past CC again and through numerable East side streets. We continued walking this direction until we hit the Jewish museum. It was oddly placed in Berlin, tucked away in a corner in comparison to the other attractions and sights. That didn’t stop it being crowded though. The building itself is very bizarre; angular, dark grey, no square or rectangular areas in the place what-so-ever and varying in height across the whole structure. We had to go through 10 minutes of bullshit security checks just to get to the ticket counter; metal detectors, pat downs with hand held scanners, x-ray machine, stuff normally reserved for international flights. All of which was claimed to be for our own ‘security’. The guards even demanded we left our bags and coats in the cloakroom when we tried to get in with them, which meant joining a continental queue, 50 people strong. Finally we were allowed into the museum itself, descending to basement level to begin.

If the outside looked peculiar, the inside was even more so. The basement is constructed of three corridors (or axis) given the titles of; holocaust, exile and redemption. These axis themselves continued the architects displeasure of angular constructions. Each of them looked more like somebody had taken a knife to the building, quick successive slashes, as if you were mutilating somebody on the street (I’m sure you know what I mean). Sharply angular, ramped, crossing over each other and rising to a point. At the end of two of the voids there were, what the architect chose to rather grandly name, ‘Voids’. At the end of the Axis of Holocaust was the ‘Voidless Void’, an empty tower that reached to the top of the building, unheated with only a slice of natural light to illuminate the room. It certainly felt like a soulless place, which is what I think the architect was trying to promote.

The second void was at the end of the Axis of Exile, and was so named the ‘Garden of Exile’. It’s design reminiscent of the Jewish memorial, but this one had trees sprouting from the top of the concrete pillars. It didn’t have as much impact as the memorial, but it certainly held danger. The floor was badly laid and you kept stubbing toe on stone, there was even a warning sign before you go outside into the garden. I suppose they don’t want to get sued to buggery by an American tourist too stupid to look at what their doing.

Once the basement was complete we were allowed back up to ground level, via a large flight of stairs. The ground floor was mainly compromised of a completely pointless art gallery. An artist had drawn (well, shat out) paintings which were connected to quotes from Franz Kafka, although as the exhibit admitted, the only connection was that they’d been stuck together. If you managed to get through the rubbish gallery you were able to reach the third void, the largest in the building, and also the coolest. The floor of the void was covered in thick iron discs with sorrowful faces cut into them. As this void cut straight through the centre of the building there were a fair few of these ‘iron mourners’, laying across the ground. The artist encourage people to walk across the iron mourners, so after a bit of tentative testing with the security guard (and waiting for someone else to go first) Maggie and I had a wander across the exhibition, clanking and clunking all the way. From memory this freaky and depressing face trampling event was called ‘Fallen Leaves’.

If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot walking on a human face— forever

Ground floor complete, now for the second. A final flight of steps and we reached the largest part of the museum. If you’ve been to a museum built within the last decade you’ll have a good idea of what it looked like inside, and I can’t be arsed to explain (truthfully, I didn’t garner that much information whilst working my way through the exhibitions). Once we finished wandering around the museum (and fought our way back to the coatroom) we wondered what we should do next.

We had heard a lot about Alexander Platz, we’d even past it several times on the trains. But as to going there, it was something we hadn’t yet done. Maggie suggested we check it out, so we did. Once we arrived at the ‘Platz it appeared to be the hang-out of choice for youths. There was an eclectic plethora of skin heads, skaters and booshers lounging around the fountain and U-Bahn walkways. There even appeared to be a few shopping centres sitting around the edges of the platz. As we found out though, they weren’t the likes of us. The largest shopping centre was an upper class snobby sort of place; faux gold window frames, suited and booted door guards, floors full of nauseating perfume and jumpers for the modest price of a hundred quid. Feeling underprivileged and out of place we scurried back into the proletarian streets, where we belong.

We’d given up the hope of finding somewhere to shop by now, so instead we just wandered around the area, checking out the accursed TV tower you can see practically anywhere in Berlin (the bastard of a building had sent us the wrong way through the city the day before, so there was some well-placed animosity towards it).

By now it was getting on and we both felt like we needed some R&R before finding a restaurant and club for the night. We hopped back on the trains and got off at the now familiar Hackescher Markt. Five minutes later we were back at the City Stay, ready to check-in proper. The girl at the desk was none other than the one we had seen on day one, and booked tonight’s room with on day two. Although I claimed the receptionist at The Circus was a pseudo-San, this girl was damn-near-identical-San, except for the red hair and that weird hole she's now got in her ear.

Oh were we surprised when we got into the room, an uncomfortable minute or two passed while Maggie and myself stared at the double bed dominating the room. Maggie and me hadn’t slept in a bed together since we were a couple neigh on over a year ago, and even then that was only once before I buggered off to China.

Luckily the staff had supplied us with two quilts and pillows so we wouldn’t have to lay uncomfortably close whilst asleep. I mentioned to Maggie that if she tried to touch me I’d call the police, my comment wasn’t received all that well. We left the complications of the bed till bed time; first we needed dinner and entertainment. After dumping our stuff and our now traditional bog scout, we went down to the bar for a drink and some information about clubs.

I bought myself a whiskey and coke while Maggie had something non-alcoholic. Damn-near-identical-San came up and asked us about a grammatical problem she was having with a new menu. So, with my superior knowledge due to my gruelling month long training course in China to become an international English teacher I helped her out. ‘Yeah it looks ok, it might be better the other way round….yeah that’ll work, I think’.

Later we managed to query the barman, who was doing his bit to drain the bar of it’s wine supply, about any decent local clubs. He told us of The Weekend, a nightclub fifteen stories high, which didn’t normally begin to fill up until 3am, but you had a beautiful view of the Berlin sunrise. Option two I can’t remember and option three was a place charmingly called ‘White Trash’. It was out in the middle of the East side housing area, a fair distance walk but apparently very popular.

We decided on White Trash, if anything because of it’s name, but before we clubbed we needed sustenance. I had made my mind up about a place called Sophien, yet again if anything because of the name, but also because it was a ‘traditional’ German restaurant. Plus it was only a short walk away in Hackescher Markt. I finished my drink and we both went up to Sophien, discovering on our way that Hackescher Markt is in fact the brothel area of Berlin. It’s intriguing how I always seem to find myself around ‘Scarlet Woman’, first off having a job situated in Wardour street, the prossie centre of Old London Town, and most memorably working in a brothel in Macau (strictly office work only). Anyway enough of my past.

The Sophien was tucked down a small street in Hackescher Markt, the inside of the restaurant was small and cramped and, to my uneducated eye, it’s décor looked distinctly more French then German. Although in the end the bearded, thickset barman with the tight leather trousers sold it as a German restaurant to me and Maggie. This fetish barman also seemed to be doing everything in the Sophien, seating customers, taking and making drink orders, serving the food and alcohol and settling the bill. Which in the end may explain why the meal was so cheap. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten out for so cheap in any other city in Europe.

It was still too early for a nightclub, but Maggie mentioned a cocktail bar she had seen in Alexander Platz during the day. At the sound of the word ‘cocktail’ I was imagining a White Russian (the greatest of them all) and readily agreed. We had already reached the City Stay by the time this suggestion came to fruition, where we discovered something a tad annoying. Alexander Platz is only a couple of minutes walk away from the City Stay, in fact walking it was much, much faster then going to Hackescher Markt station and catching a train. So this time we walked to AP, whilst passing a couple of skinheads getting arrested by the polizei.

Without further ado the cocktail bar was found, and it was certainly a popular pre-club place. Two floors with a massive tent bolted to the side, completely protected from the elements. Maggie decreed the tent was the place for us, so we squeezed in and found a couple of spare, if awkwardly placed, seats. Bad choice, the tent was the cocktail bar’s smoking area. Normally for me this would have been brilliant. As I found out from an old German friend a smoking ban had been in place in Berlin since January, similar to the one England is suffering through. It was great to see a bar where they had somehow circumnavigated the smoking ban, or at least it would if I hadn’t of given up. My resolve was being tested, but I ignored my cravings for tobacco and instead ordered a different dangerous addictive substance, alcohol. For me, a sublime White Russian, for Maggie, some green coloured fruity mess with half a tree lodged in it. We passed our time chatting and people watching/commenting, while I hungrily watched everyone around me suck on delicious fumes, lucky bastards.

Once the drinks were finished we paid a kings ransom for our two drinks (cost more than our dinner) and went to find White Trash. As per tradition I had my Berlin map in my left cheek pocket, along with a second smaller map where the barman had marked White Trash on. On the way up to where I estimated our club would be we passed The Weekend, the 15th floor nightclub. We thought we might as well have a go at getting in there instead, since it was nearer. Not a chance, firstly we didn’t know how to even get into the building, and when we did work that one out the bouncers wouldn’t even open the door for us. It all felt very underhand and illegal, not like the brightly lit clubs on London, with hordes of people queuing to get in. The Weekend felt more like an underground Russian gun fair ’you want gun? I get you nice gun, da?’

We gave up on that club and continued in the direction of White Trash. This part of the whole trip was the most daunting and frightening. We were now in a rough part of Berlin where there wasn’t any sort of security about, only aggressive looking people. I felt particularly vulnerable because, as Maggie had pointed out the day before, I was wearing possibly the worst coat for East-side Berlin. I didn’t think about it when I packed my stuff, my green double-breasted donkey jacket is my warmest coat. Just add a few lapels and insignia and you got a Russian military jacket... Now it was making sense why I had been getting so many looks the last few days, in one case stopping a woman dead in a coffee shop. She didn’t stop staring at me, bucket of coffee halfway to her mouth, until I was past the window and out of sight.

To say the least I was now bricking myself, not least because if anything happened I would have to play the role of defender to Maggie, and in reality land I’m a pussy. Then again, Maggie would probably end up being my defender, she’s one girl you wouldn’t want to mess with. Anyways we didn’t have any problems getting to White Trash, except for a daunting couple of minutes when a drunk dude stumbled towards us, looking like he had just finished strangling a litter of kittens.

For anyone out there going abroad there’s one piece of brilliant advice I learnt, although it’s so blindingly obvious you wouldn’t think of it. It’s to look like you’re familiar in unfamiliar situations/locations. Instead of swinging your head left and right, gawping at everything you see, walk in a determined fashion, looking straight ahead. Looking less like a tourist is the best way to protect yourself from a mugging and/or getting floored.

Huzzah! We reached White Trash with faces and wallets in-tact. Only the problem we had was we couldn’t quite find the club, just a restaurant instead with a couple of people wandering about. Not even a thumping baseline to give the club’s location away. Yet again, the place looked underhanded and illegal, and by now Maggie and I were so tired and fed up we couldn’t be bothered any longer. The real life vampire bar next door called ‘Last Cathedral’, full of black clad idiots who believe nobody understands or ‘gets them’. The fact that this was a bar where the patrons actually drink another consenting goth’s blood was a strong deterrent as well. So, tired and wasted, we found a nearby U-Bahn and went back to the City Stay.

But before we reached the hostel we saw something quite novel, and potentially dangerous. As walked back through Alexander Platz we noticed that several cranes on a nearby building site were starting to move. Intrigued, we stood and watched. Three cranes in total were swinging around in circles, nearly crashing into each other several times. We thought they must have been hijacked by pranksters, you don’t normally get drunk crane operators working at 11:30pm.

After seeing a rather weird but fun sight, we got back to the City Stay and had one final drink before bed, discussing politics and other high brow things (when I start drinking I get philosophical and political, the rest of the time I’m a drivelling baboon). Sharing the bed wasn’t as bad as I thought, I was just drunk enough not to give a toss as I slipped into the room and the land of nod.

There ends the fucking incredibly long dissertation of day three. If you’ve got a spare weekend coming up get ready for day four, the finale!

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