Musings on travel #2: Berlin

A Friday "posy" of images and words

Image: Schöneberg by Monique Mulligan

Dear Creative Souls,

The memories of winter in Berlin seem so far away as I write this afternoon. Here in Perth, the sun is blazing, the air-conditioning is on, and it’s currently 37.5C (99.5F). Tomorrow we’re expected to reach 41C (105.8). Like the writer of this article, I am not a summer lover (I don’t hate it, but I have a sun allergy, the heat exhausts me, and I burn within minutes); on the hottest days you’ll find me venturing outside on the fringes of daylight - early in the morning or just before sunset.

I let my eyes drift closed for a moment, transport my mind to Berlin. Let me take you with me - with a selection of black-and-white images and travel notes.

Travel bouquets

I am travelling to Berlin on the ICE from Munich, grateful that, after thirty hours’ travel and missing our earlier reserved connection, we have seats and our luggage is stowed. Others have not been so fortunate - they sit on the floor with their luggage, but I am too exhausted to feel anything but relief.

The train flashes past fields of white, tiny villages and church steeples, towering wind turbines, cars weighed down with 40cm of snow; it’s a clear day, and I’m struck by the difference in light - it is delicate, with the faintest apricot near the horizon giving the illusion of winter warmth. Later, I learn a new word (an archaic word that deserves a revival) - apricity - and it seems the perfect way to describe that light.

Outside: A tiny chapel wedged between two leafless trees on a snow-crusted hill. A silhouette of a man walking his dog. Bright. White. Fading light. Inside: Low murmuring of voices, fingers tapping on keyboards. A woman complains in rapid German about the busier-than-usual train, but no one cares. The woman opposite me opens a box of chocolates, selects one; a smile of pleasure flits across her face and then she is expressionless once more.

A golden ridge ribbons the hills, the sun is setting. At Leipzig, a man runs along the platform, waving at someone he loves who’s leaving on a south-bound train.

Waiting. Image by Monique Mulligan

Bouquets from Berlin

‘Berlin is not Germany, Germany is not Berlin.’ - Unknown

A homeless man on street corner, sleeping bag pulled up to his ears. He is perhaps thirty, thirty five; there is still hope in his eyes. It is -1C (30F), blessedly warmer than the days before; we West Aussies cannot comprehend how people can sleep rough in winter and we give him a few Euros, say hello in German. He smiles, wishes us a “Schönen Tag” and “ Frohe Weinachten”. Later, and over the coming weeks, we realise the enormity of the problem - we see people sleeping in corners, doorways, under bridges, and that leads our thoughts further afield, to Ukraine, Gaza …

We walk eighteen kilometres on our first day, layering our bodies with clothes, our minds with new sights and memories in making: we discover Christmas markets, a busy shopping district, the Berlin zoo. We delight in the unfamiliar sensation of whispery snowflakes kissing our skin; we warm ourselves with hot chocolate in a lush palm-filled café at odds with the leafless trees outside.

Tiergarten, Berlin. Image by Monique Mulligan

More walking - every day layers new memories in our souls and Berlin steals into our hearts. We eat döner, drink glühwein, visit museums, pause at memorials, wander in snow-blanketed parks, stumble across Christmas markets, go to a lunchtime concert at the Berlin Philharmonie, point at random murals. We catch trains, buses, trams; we learn where to find toilets, we veer away from the tourist areas and shopping centres to find cheap, good food. We fall for this funky, foodie, chilled-out city and imagine ourselves living there for a month, or two or three. At night, we unwind in a cosy home away from home; we eat brot, käse and schinken (bread, cheese and ham) from Aldi with slices of tomato and cucumber. We dream.

Unwind. Image by Monique Mulligan

We learn how to walk on icy paths (and not to walk on the bike paths). We complain about the endless layering of clothes, and the cold that seeps through our sub-par gloves and freezes the tips of our noses. We apply lip balm several times a day; we drink less water than usual because the cold affects our bladders.

The snow melts a little more each day. Patches of brown appear. We collect mud on our boots. We walk and walk, and this city full of contradictions and surprises, burrows deeper. We wonder if the snow and twinkling Christmas lights, the festive atmosphere that adds warmth in these rapidly shortening days, and the newness of it all is tinting our perspective. If January, bleak and dark, would change our view. We discover a cheap and friendly Greek restaurant in the back streets of Charlottenburg and decide we don’t care if our glasses are tinted with rose.

All the bikes in a row. Image by Monique Mulligan

A train strike is announced; we catch a bus from Schöneberg to the East Side and walk along the famous wall gallery until the crowds get too much. I expect - want - to feel something but there are too many cameras, too many posers, too many selfies and all I feel is closed in. Later, walking towards Alexanderplatz, I think of my extended family on my mother’s side - my great-grandparents, great-aunts and cousins - who lived like prisoners, unable to be their true selves. Living in fear. Surviving. This is when I feel what I expect to feel. This is when my throat tightens and I pause, and give thanks for the freedom I was born into.

Scoot back in time. Image: Monique Mulligan

We leave Berlin with the sense that there is unfinished business. Four days was not enough. At the train station, I buy pastries and black coffee, and muse over the irony that the one place we dithered about visiting has made such an indelible impression. I feel it still.

Berlin. Image by Monique Mulligan

Schöneberg. Image by Monique Mulligan

In search of art. Image by Monique Mulligan

Next stop: Munich