All we hear is Radio’ Gra-Gra(dy)

As part of my bid to become German in 473,937,493 easy steps, one step really should be, you know, becoming an actual German. As I’ll have been in Berlin for 8 years in September, the requirement for getting citizenship, this is my plan for the end of the year. I just have to pass a naturalisation test – there are 310 possible questions with 33 on the test, of which, I have to get 17 correct (God knows who chose those numbers) – and demonstrate adequate German skills. As my German is good enough, but not good enough for me, I decided I wanted to improve before I take the test and, the best way for me to do this, is by talking to real, live Germans.

So, I posted on nebenan.de that I was looking to start a German-English exchange, online, where we could speak for an hour, 30 minutes of German, 30 minutes of English. I thought if I could get 2 or 3 people, that would be a win.

I guess I underestimated my neighbours.

Over the course of the next few days, replying to all of the responses pretty much turned into a part-time job. I now have regular online meetings with several people, one of whom is a retired lady who doesn’t really want to bother with her English; she just wants to help me with my German. Aside from doing that, she keeps me entertained with stories from her youth in the GDR, tells me her 85-year-old mother is more active than I am, and teaches me fun words like “Jahresendflügelfigur” (“yearendwingfigure”, or an angel to you and me). We met in person last Friday and she treated me to a slap-up breakfast in a lovely café, although I felt a bit guilty afterwards about ordering spring onions AND Speck on my scrambled eggs when I thought I was going to be paying for myself.

On top of the people who were happy to meet online, there were also a number of people who were utterly fed up with online meetings and wanted to meet in person. I was a bit reluctant at first but then I thought, what the hell – life has to go on at some stage and it would be really nice to meet some people from my neighbourhood. So, I booked a table for eight people at a pub just down the road.

It was around this time that I got an email from a lady who works at nebenan, asking if she could pass on my details to rbb 88.8, a Berlin radio station. It seems my little contribution to the community had been noticed and a reporter would like to interview me about my “tolle Initiative” as part of their “Lieblingsnachbarn – Geschickte von nebenan” series (Favourite neighbours – stories from next door). While the whole idea had been about improving my German, I wasn’t really sure I was ready to improve it on German radio in German but, like a big eejit, I said yes.

The evening of the in-person meet-up rolled around so I strolled over to the pub just before 5 o’clock. Being a good (almost) German and knowing how much Germans like an agenda, I’d prepared a speech in my head, had a rough idea of where I’d like people to sit – I’d roped in a friend from university so we’d have two native English speakers to six Germans – and was ready to set a timer so we could switch languages every thirty minutes. If only things like this were on the naturalisation test – I’m not sure you can get much more German than that. And, as it turned out, I was more German than the Germans, who were not punctual, wandered in and sat where they liked, and had to nerve to easily and fluidly switch back and forth between the two languages willy-nilly. Not even a hint of following an agenda…

I’d expected that we’d be there for an hour, maybe two, tops. I started off on white wine spritzers so that I would at least look like an upstanding citizen but the Germans hit the beer and wine like there was no tomorrow. You couldn’t imagine a nicer, funnier bunch of people – I think that everyone was just so delighted to be OUT again. Seven and a half hours later, we rolled out of the bar, mainly because the barman wanted to go home.

In the meantime, I’ve become good friends with one of the women who was there. As it happens, I can see her apartment from my balcony but we probably never would have met if I hadn’t organised this little shindig. (She sent me a picture of my apartment from her apartment the next morning, just to freak me out.) We all met up again last night at a Greek restaurant and are going to try to make it a monthly thing. Achtung, bar and restaurant staff of Pankow – if I book a table, chances are it’s going to be a late night.

On the day of the interview, it was bucketing down and I looked like a drowned rat by the time I got to the café. I had googled the reporter to see what she looked like and I waited outside until someone with a vague resemblance to that came along. She hadn’t been dripping wet in any of the photos or accompanied by the massive dog she was walking but I was pretty sure it was her and called out her name. She had also googled me so she wasn’t expecting a blonde. We were off to a confusing, soggy start.

We walked into the café and sat down, with my back to a wall so that the microphone could better pick up my voice. She asked me if I’d enjoyed the bullfight I’d gone to.

Me: What?

Silke: The bullfight. In Madrid. My son wants to know if you enjoyed it.

The penny dropped and I realised she must have gone – quite extensively – through my Facebook photos.

Me: Oh, God no, it was horrendous. I had to leave.

Silke: OK, good. My son said you would be a very stupid woman if you had liked it.

Once that was settled, we started chatting away like old friends. In fact, we were nattering away for around 30 minutes before we remembered we were actually there to do an interview.

The waitress’s photography skills weren’t the best but she was a master of staring at her own phone.

I took out my notebook, where I’d diligently written down all of the points I’d like to get through. Silke looked at me a bit dubiously.

Silke: You do realise that the segment is only 90 seconds, right?

Me: Yes, you’re right. I’d need my own talk show to get through all of this… (hint, hint)

She turned on the mic, prompted me with a few questions and I prattled away happily. I got in a few gems like “Die Leute hatten die Schnauze voll von online Meetings” and “Die Gespräche und der Wein flossen in Strömen” – the conversation and the wine flowed. It sounds better in English. Unfortunately, both ended up on the cutting room floor but I’m sharing them with you anyway.

Silke took a couple of photos of me for the website and we were done.

They didn’t all turn out so well…

As we said our goodbyes, she told me the interview had been “bezaubernd” (enchanting), the highlight of her day and that I was welcome to pop in and visit her at home if I was ever in the area.

Seems I just can’t stop making new friends now…

If you want to listen to the interview, scroll around halfway down the page until you see me looking like Kevin from Home Alone.

https://www.rbb888.de/Programmaktionen/lieblingsnachbarn/lieblingsnachbarn.html

And don’t judge my German too harshly – that’s my job 😉

See gulls?

After five years of living in Berlin, it seems I have finally found a pleasing pocket of this sprawling metropolis that suits me down to the ground. Yes, I recently moved to the lovely, leafy suburb of Pankow – and I only had to go via Wedding, Charlottenburg, Friedrichshain, Neukölln, Wedding (again), Lankwitz and  Friedrichshain (again) to find it. Well, nobody ever said life in Berlin would be easy.

The great thing about Pankow is that it’s (shock horror) a couple of stops outside the Ring train line, which means that it’s largely free from hipsters, wankers, hipster-wankers, men who wear trousers that show their ankles, drunks, drug dealers, drug users, pickpockets, people on trains who reek so much you can smell them on your hair and clothes for hours afterwards, foreigners who expect everyone to speak English, and people who walk around with poo running down the backs of their legs. Yes, Berlin is a wonderfully diverse city like that.

OK, I’m back. The Berlin Tourist Board just called to offer me a job…

Anyhooooooo, anyone who knows me knows that I have long lamented the local habit of people dumping their useless crap on the street. However, in Pankow, even this is rather civilised. People actually put out useful stuff like kids’ clothes and toys, books, and household objects that… wait for it… still work. And woe betide anyone who goes rogue.

Asocial, uncultured people left me here. This is Pankow, not Kreuzberg. Wake up. (I might fall in love with whoever wrote this if I ever find them.)

And so it was, last Saturday, I was on my way back from the speed-packing odyssey that is LIDL when I saw a little treasure trove outside my very own apartment building. It could be that I’m getting old, or perhaps even odder, but I was overjoyed to see that someone had put out mugs. Yes, MUGS!

The sign says that you can drop a small donation to the Berlin Animal Shelter into their mailbox. CIVILISED.

Now, you might be thinking it’s a bit strange for someone to get so excited over something so mundane but bear with me. You see, I’d bought these stupid cups in Kaufland when I moved in, with kind of fancy handles. Little did I know that I wouldn’t even be able to fit all of my midget fingers in there and that gripping the handle in a certain way would cause calluses on my ring fingers.

Yes, you may shed a tear for my first-world problems now.

(I have also just realised that it’s rather difficult to take a photo of a finger on your right hand when you’re right-handed. And that my knuckles might be a tad overweight.)

So, I grabbed the two biggest mugs (with gently rounded handles) I could see and strolled back to my apartment, pleased with my haul. I sent a message to my building’s WhatsApp group thanking the “mysterious neighbour” who’d left out the brilliant cups and got a nice message back. All was well in the world of Pankow (or Pandow, as I now think of it).

“Be bambootiful” 🙂

A couple of days later, I was scratching my healing calluses (because I’m a very sexy person) when a personal WhatsApp message popped up on my phone.

“Hi Linda, this is Sigrid from the front building. You recently took the cups that my husband left out. Was there a white cup with a “Möwe” on it?”

Shit, shit, shit! Had I done something wrong? Weren’t the cups put out for people to take after all? Had I accidentally stolen from my lovely new neighbours? Was I being a weird foreigner in the land of German unwritten rules? And what the hell was a “Möwe”? It didn’t sound anything like “panda” but this is German so who knows!? ARGH! Panic, panic, panic!

I willed my wizened fingers to function and entered “Möwe” into Linguee. “Seagull”. Huh. OK. Couldn’t really get much further from a panda. Relief flooded over me. Then I remembered the other mug. I was pretty sure it was just plain gold but I pulled it out of the cupboard in trepidation to make sure there wasn’t a seagull I’d missed anywhere. Nope, no seagull. Thank God.

I messaged back to say that I hadn’t seen any mug with a seagull on it and Sigrid replied to say that maybe her daughter had hidden it somewhere. Laughing smileys were exchanged and we went our separate virtual ways, with me safe in the knowledge that I could go on living in my apartment without being known as the “sticky-(callused-)fingered Irish girl”. Phew.

Still, I like a story with a happy ending so I messaged her yesterday to see if she’d ever found the mysterious seagull cup. Turns out it’s nowhere to be found. Either her daughter is a really good hider or someone else on the street has a penchant for cups with seagulls on them. Who knows? Will we ever know?

And people say life in Pankow is dull…

(It is. It really is. Please don’t move here. Especially if you’re a hipster, wanker, hipster-wanker…)

 

 

 

I’m all tied up

Don’t worry, I’m still not bound and gagged on someone’s basement floor. However, that might be preferable to the German red tape fiasco I’m currently embroiled in. You see, in order to live like a real person in Germany, and do important stuff like get wifi and a smart phone (and trivialities like a bank account and a tax number), you need a certificate of registration. This is called a “Meldebescheinigung” – try saying that drunk. Actually, try saying it sober.

In order to get the Meldeblahblah, you need to have found somewhere to live and have a document stating that you live there. So, in the nicest possible German way (which is how I try to operate these days), I asked for a rental contract. I asked again. Nicely. And again. On Friday morning, realising that the polite German approach was getting me nowhere fast, I threw a good old-fashioned Irish hissy fit. The contract was in my letter box on Friday evening. Step one – check.

On Monday morning, armed with my contract and passport, I went to my local Bürgeramt to fill in the form. Inconveniently (but I suppose not unexpectedly), this was in German. However, this is never really a problem as there’s always a conveniently-placed German man willing to help a girl out. With this one’s help, I completed the form and went back to the counter to get it stamped. Silly me – like it could be that simple.

Scheiße…

No, it seems that you have to make an appointment to get it stamped. So, I went home, got online and looked for the next available one – which was in NOVEMBER. Now, the tricky thing about this registration number is that you have to get it within two weeks of moving in, otherwise they can fine you – up to €500, the scare-mongerers say. So, in desperation, I called the number to see if there was any way around this.

The helpful man informed me that you didn’t necessarily have to register at your local office; you could do it at any office in the city, and some of them had a walk-in service. He listed a few and recommended that I get there early.

The next morning, I was up at 4am. I’d chosen the most far-flung office – Pankow – as I figured there would be fewer foreigners moving to that area than any of the central ones. At 7am, I walked in.

Me: Hi, I need to get this document stamped. 

Heinz: At 11. 

Me: 11???

Heinz: 11, and you need an appointment. 

Me: Can I make an appointment now?

Heinz: (handing me the same bit of card the woman at my local office had) Online. 

Me: But, but, the guy on the phone said…

Heinz: Don’t speak English. 11.

Me: But, but…

Heinz: NO ENGLISH.

As my arguing techniques in German haven’t yet evolved past Arschloch, Scheiße, and Verpiss dich, I had no option but to leave. After some more online sleuthing, and a little help from the Berlin Expats Facebook page, I found out that a couple of offices do have a walk-in service, a couple of half-days a week. (Pankow did until a few weeks ago, seemingly.)

Some people lie down and die at this point. (Taken outside my local Burgeramt.)

Unfortunately, this morning, I had a lesson and four other lessons to plan for, so it was almost midday by the time I made it to Kreuzberg. The office closed at 1pm. Nevertheless, I gamely joined the queue and got talking to an Italian girl. She said that she’d originally been there at 7.30am and that the queue had stretched all the way from the office on the 3rd floor to the front door.

Just as we were around six people from the magic door, the security guard came over and announced that it was all over for today. He recommended that we come back at 6am the following week.

I mean, really – if this is the best system that THE GERMANS can come up with, what hope do the rest of us have? Luckily, it turns out that being surrounded by mindless bureaucracy and helpless men brings out a hammer-happy side to me that I never knew existed.

Et voila. Built by rage. And a hammer.

So, German bureau-crazy, you may have won the first few rounds, but I WILL win the war. You can expect me bright and early on Monday morning – but not at 6am. That’s just insanity…