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Di. Jun 13

Of course, dear reader, make it out alive we do indeed - so today we foray uptown to Charlottenburg. A clutch more Bären are mugshotted for my collection along the way to our first port of call, The Story Of Berlin. Here I intend to feed two birds with one seed: my guest can learn about the city he’s visiting whilst I can most welcomely remind myself of indeed anything about the city in which I reside. Pleasantly the afternoon is passed ambling through mires of the past before we shock ourselves back to now with necessitous steak frites und Rotwein at my ol’ fave Paris Bar.

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Mo. Jun 12

Struggling to shrug off our slothful weekend Chris and I squint our way into an uncompromising daylight. A brief hesitation on the Hauptstraße to squelch a gratifyingly stodgy Bäckerei Frühstück down our gullets afore a slip up Akazienstaße and into DoubleEye for some serious caffeination: finally we emerge fortified, energised, even feverish for a good few hours getting down and dirty to our favourite activity… yes, I mean yet more record shopping.

I am lucky to find myself living a mere hop and skip from Dodo Beach, one of the finest record stores I have ever had the pleasure of perusing, so to bring Chris here is rather a joy. A journey of joy. A slog of joy. A marathon of joy incorporating many cups of water, a cheeky slink off home by someone who shall remain nameless* to see a man about a dog (*yes it me), and a half-time pit stop at Hannibal for necessary-to-function burger/beer consumption and Discogs consultation before heading back to Dodo Beach for Part Zwei: Das Purchasing. Do we decide what to buy before closing time, or become lost to the furthest dusty reaches of the basement racks forever? Find out in tomorrow’s instalment... if indeed there is one.

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So. Jun 11

Sechs Wochen of separation mean that Chris and I pass the weekend hunkered in a haze of homebody habitude. Nagging new Germanic ways proffer a pressing need to demonstrate Das Vogelhaus’s recycling area. A somnamble around the block occurs in which autonomic waves are made t’wards the finer highlights of the neighbourhood (take a bow, REWE und Haupt Gëtranke). Post-masticative windypops confirm that at some point one of Max Und Moritz’s delectable calzones is indeed devoured. Beyond that? Bis Morgen.

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Sa. Jun 10

After a simulacrum of sleep - and a stinging admonishment for using too many blankets - we’re Slavically kicked to the Teutonic kerb. Ay, me. Strange how this already feels like home indeed. Yet still the eager and unsullied gaze of my guest’s eyes alights upon that which I have grown blind to even in such a short space of time. Another Bär is papped for the collection. A library of musical reading matter is thumbed. And all before we’ve even left the confines of the Hauptbahnhof.

Giddy delirium rapidly bows out to that peculiarly insidious traveler’s brand of exhaustion. Wringing feverish knuckles into slow-off-the-mark eyes, I muster energy enough to give Chris a slack-jawed, monosyllabic guided tour of the S ride from Mitte to Schöneberg and ensuing stroll to my flat. Once inside, the remainder of the day passes with perfunctory flaps of the hand in the general directions of the fridge and other necessities, swiftly followed by rumpled faces contentedly flumping soporifically into plump downy pillows.

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Fr. Jun 9

Good time is made. Thus Chris and I find ourselves in the vicinity of our hotel with a decent window in which to relieve the nearest supermarché of tasty travel snacks before retrieving our luggage and skipping merrily across la rue to Gare du Nord where a sleeper train shall romantically sweep us off to Berlin. Le sigh!

The rosy reverie is broken when at T-minus 15 minutes I double-check the tickets and realise our impatient loitering should actually be enacted over at Gare de l’Est. ‘Scatty’ is simply not a descriptor associated with Brand Walton (’planning’ and ‘punctuality’: yes please) so the one-two punch of ‘oh crisps we’re missing the train’ and ‘what in the effing chuff has fogged up my mind palace?’ means that the ensuing scramble to the correct station shall forever be a question mark in my memory. But scramble there we do, entirely thanks to Chris heroically keeping a cool head and my panic on a short leash.

Our mobile abode is a Russian Railways service. This is abundantly clear from the off as the conductor only converses with us via pidgin sign language, and the onboard literature is either wholly Cyrillic or I’m succumbing to one trip of a migraine. Miraculously (and likely by happy accident) we order coffee. Safely sealed into our roomette we prod and poke methodically through the various handles and levers, finding a pillow here, uncovering a sheet there. As we build up to a putter through Gallic suburbs our minuscule capsule finds itself transformed into a cosy, nightworthy bolthole.

Alas, and unusually for me, I’m stricken by a touch of travel sickness. After an exuberant yet fruitless gag in the lavs, I teeter back to my bunk to pasty-facedly groan and moan my way towards sleep. Alas again! As soon as I position myself horizontally my stomach gurgles in a nigh-on operatic manner, signalling its twisted need for further vom-fodder.

Chris and I head to the dining carriage. A gander through the window isn’t promising, but in for a cent, in for a euro. Heaving open the hefty door and shuffling the full length of the gangway, all is serene as dim spotlights overhead cast a murky green glow. We’re about to turn tail when a hitherto unnoticed lady behind the counter a few feet away suddenly leans forward to thrust towards us a menu. Spent backsides slink into the nearest seats; famished eyes mentally savour every dish. Just as our choices are made, the lady joltingly materialises table-side to harriedly shoo us away. ‘Closed!’ she barks. ‘Closed!’ Thoroughly creeped out, we leg it out of the carriage into the vestibule, the previously unwieldy door slamming behind us quick as a flash. We peer back through the unsettling aspect provided by the connecting window - every light in the dining car is doused, and there is nary a soul in sight.

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Fr. Jun 9

Waking up in a hotel room never gets old, especially when throwing open the windows to the light of an incipiently beautiful day encapsulating a postcard-perfect backdrop.

Only having until the evening here, Chris and I eschew stereotypical tourist fare and head off in search of our preferred activity: the childlike joy that only a thorough rummage through a record store's racks can bring. 

Having exhausted every last inch of Ground Zero, purchases safely in tote, we stumble back onto the street with feet aching and stomachs grumbling. The Metro scoots us Seine-side. Snatching hasty sidelong glimpses of Notre Dame, we slalom through the unruly throngs of plodding bodies flooding every thoroughfare before skidding safely to a halt in the winding alleys of Saint Michel and falling into the nearest eatery.

Steak frites and vin rouge devoured, we agree upon a digestif of an amble trainwards back across the Seine. Pausing halfway to snatch another eyeful (this time of a diminutively rendered Tour Eiffel) we promenade in a northerly fashion across Pont Neuf - daintily, of course, lest the beef in our bellies proves the straw to break this padlocked donkey’s back. 

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Do. Jun 8

An unusual but not unpleasant tingle of relief flows into my coccyx as I stumble down into Gare du Nord and perform an impromptu audition for the Ministry Of Silly Walks in my bid to stave off a nagging cramp.

Dashing for an exit I’m brought to an abrupt halt by a bodily roadblock headed by burly armed police. Previous experience of Paris tells me that folk here are passionate, heated, not afraid to express opinion. I slink my way to the front of the throng: we’ll ‘ave this navved in a jif. 

Left and right I look - everyone about me stands stock still, studying their shoes, dull as though pausing for a traffic light’s transformation. Fine then. You might have all week, but my gaff’s mere yards away and I gotta take the bleeding weight off. Breathing deep and breaking unspoken formation I step up to the nearest policeman and ask just what in the dickens is afoot - in response I receive a kindly smile and am swiftly ushered down a sidestreet to my hotel. I’m out of the loop as to the reason behind the holdup, but I can tell you this: the Gendarme are not all as formidable as they may seem, and I wouldn’t be surprised if some of those spineless gutter-gazers are still waiting to cross that road to this day.

Train travel, as I do believe I’ve mentioned, is quite a penchant of mine. So Hotel Whistler (a last-minute snatch-up through the fabulous Hotel Tonight app) couldn’t be more up my aesthetic railroad. Check that decor! Never mind kicking my daps off - I attain nirvana merely lobbing my backpack into the steamer-trunk-come-closet. But more of this later. Speedy costume change, toe-flex and Italian shower ticked off, I plot a gun-free route back to Gare du Nord where I take up position on the pertinent platform, for I am not here entirely on my jollies, oh no: I am here in anticipation of The Other Half. 

As the Eurostar from dear old Albion chunters to a halt afore me and sloughs off its passengeric load, my gaze sharpens and initiates a facial recognition sequence lifted wholesale from a lazy sci-fi film. I’m thankful that some part of my brain is on top of the task in hand, as the frankly unanticipated and most bothersome ‘big girl’s blouse’ part has my usually stoic self wibbling at the merest peep of Chris’s jacket. Making little eye contact and wordlessly grasping hands, I attempt to choke back a manly eye-leak whilst leading the way back to sanctuary.

Partial to creature comforts as we are, a lengthy lie down and a cuppa or three are in order before we nip out for a late evening leg-stretch in search of a proper bite to eat. We’re free, we’re easy, an entire culinary wonderland lies at our feet. Yet we’re also sleepy, sluggish, and cartoonishly drawn to the waft of a sizzling hotplate. Thus, after sauntering past a sight or two, it is into McDonalds which we fall for a cursory fill. Not having the most cultured of palates, I can hardly say I find this a cop-out. Indeed I’m quite satisfied to order a special not available in the UK, and am mildly chuffed if a tad weirded out when a neighbouring scranner comes over to our table to bizarrely compliment me on - and do a impression of - my exhaustedly rumbling, oh-so-British voice. Whaddaya know? Mayhap I’m exotic round these parts. That or junk food does wonders for the ol’ larynx after all.

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Do. Jun 8

Today I travel to Gay Paree. My mobile ticket has long since been booked, and is primed and ready onscreen with a belt-and-braces screenshot in reserve. I packed last night. Departure times and route numbers have been checked and checked again. Four alarms were set. Nothing can go wrong. I even pull off a barely-awake sprint akin to one half of an exceedingly unsynchronised three-legged race down my street to the Schöneberg S to ensure I’m on my platform at Berlin-Südkreuz with plenty of time to spare. And of course, with such pernickety attention to detail, I am. After giving myself a smug internal high five I kill time by drooling over the counter of the Scoom kiosk and reward myself with an absolute hammer of a falafel wrap for my journey.

My first train up to the Hauptbahnhof arrives. I have a good few minutes more in which to make my connection than my squeaky-bum-time jaunt to Warsaw originally suggested, so I’m pretty chill. Hoiking my thumbs in my backpack straps I stride nonchalantly up to the departures screen and scan for my platform. Scan again. Perhaps the screen’s faulty? I stride to another, and scan. Scan again. I find a good old fashioned printed timetable board: see, here’s my train and platform. A jot less nonchalantly I trot up the stairs to the platform my train should be departing from in order to check with a kindly member of staff. Still pre-6am, of course, the kindly staff are all still tucked up in bed and my train is not listed on the screen of this platform either.

As much as I adore train travel I cannot abide, nor indeed cope with, uncertainty. By now wobbling like a new-born foal I make laps of the station, clasping a palm to my forehead in the international language of “Help Me!”. Every information point I pass is closed. I flail into the nearest open shop where at last somebody who at least works in the general vicinity pops up, sympathetically directs me towards assistance, and zips up my backpack which in my mithered state of mind I can’t recall opening and is about to wantonly sprinkle a fairytale trail of odds and sods behind me.

“Ahh, hmm,” the helpdesk clerk squints over his glasses at my ticket, and nods sagely, “the timetable for this route has been revised: this service departed 20 minutes ago”. Peering back through his lenses and sensing my impending hysteria, he swiftly magics up a new route which lands me in Paris in an acceptable timeframe, reprints my ticket, and validates it for this new route with an impressively officious stamp-and-signature combo. 

Crisis averted, I step away from the helpdesk, let some adrenaline drain from my jelly legs, and check my new journey deets. Two hours. Two hours to kill?! Are you having a gira- oh, can it, brain. Things could be a lot worse. Fresh air seems in order. Tentatively flexing my pegs, I rise, gather my belongings, and bob off for a calming constitutional of the immediate area outside the main entrance. Ain’t that just like me to wind up in the least scenic of spots. I can’t fathom which proves more twistedly hilare: the chainlink-and-landfill waterside drudgery, or the night-terror rictus grin of the metallic stallion cowering before me and the parasitic, petrified disembodied noggin ensconced within.  Back inside and safely cradled in the soothing, familiar embrace of Maccy Ds, I slurp down a pint or two of coffee in an attempt to blanch these horrific images from my mind’s eye until finally! My next train is ready to board. Köln here I come. This leg is thankfully lazy and passes entirely without incident. I nap awhile and awake just in time to bag one of my by-now-signature ‘crappy sida town’ snaps of our locomotive’s sluggish chug into the city. An efficient connection and I’m on my third and final leg. To celebrate I flump my weary bod into the first available seat and decorate myself and half the carriage with an unorthodox but colourful confetti of carrot, cabbage, and falafel crumbies. Note to self: never trust German public transport kiosk food to actually be suitable for public transport consumption. No. Not without incident. Along comes the conductor to shatter the equilibric calm. My credit card palpably winces as it is forced to cough up for a new fare, my DB-validated ticket meaning nothing here. I’m ousted from my seat as it is already claimed by another passenger - the invisible man perhaps? But, the conductor is strict yet fair, and asks a lady a few rows up to move her bag so that I can sit next to her, as this is the only seat on the train not reserved. I proffer begruding-yet-grateful thanks to both and nip off for a slash before returning to claim my new throne. German. English. French. Shouty Mime. Blank eyes bore into mine as I reel haplessly through my feeble index of communication in an attempt to explain to this ‘lady’ that I’m the very person the conductor informed her of mere minutes earlier. Nada. One of her companions across the aisle intervenes, disgruntled that someone might dare to disrupt her slumber, and I awkwardly park my backside in the icy shade of my new neighbour’s glare. Thus begins the most itchily uncomfortable hour I have ever spent on a train. My mere presence somehow offends not only the Bag Lady but all five of her travelling squad. I whip my pocket mirror out at regular intervals, inspect my jawline, my neck - I’m convinced the incessant beams of so many evil eyes aimed on me are powerful enough to make me break out in hives. 

Mercy arrives at the next stop in the form of the passenger booked into my supposedly unbooked Sitzplatz. I can’t scarper fast enough. The ‘bar car’ is not a bar at all but an overpriced, seatless tuck shop. I lock myself in a blessedly sanitary and spacious toilet, and get down to some restorative ablutions as a means of sloughing off the stress and running down the clock. A testy hammer on the door eventually turfs me out; froglike I squat on a sciatica-baiting makeshift pew for the final descent into our destination.

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Mi. Jun 7

Said nightcap was above and beyond the call of duty: a draught sufficiently potent to divorce my eyelids but a couple of hours after my head hits the pillow. I’m daisily dandy to the point that being inside bends my head so soon enough my togs are tossed back on and out for a neighbourhood stroll I slip.

Navigating aimless corners and crossings I find myself outside an establishment graced with my presence on my previous trip to Berlin: Café BilderBuch. Having seen it tipped amongst the top spots for a Schöneberg Frühstück, I’d plonked myself into a chair on the morning of my 32nd birthday and proceeded to be perplexed by a buffet of - at least to my British palate - somewhat strange platefellows. I may well have chowed down on something intended solely as decorative garnish (certain readers will understand the phrase ‘Thai beetroot’; let’s leave that there).

I plonk myself back into the same chair, snatch up the menu, and determinedly scrutinise it with a month of linguistic osmosis under my belt. Caviar and smoked salmon. Get in! Treat meself. The plate that arrives in front of me is not so much meal as meta art installation [ref. Fig 1(a) ‘Eggs Is Eggs’]. Melon. Why is melon teamed with fish? Hey, Germany, heads up: I appreciate the cultural difference but there’s a variety of Obst goes lovely with salmon which we in the English-speaking world know as the ‘bagel’. True fact. Suddenly famished I dig in with gusto and am rewarded with near-permanent loss of a solid effort 3 out of 5 senses; anyone who claims ability to maintain a sophisticated veneer whilst sputtering a camouflaged dollop of horseradish from their tear ducts and snapping their fingers frenetically for a top-up needs their kecks stamping out.

Unexpected cauterisation over, sluggishness belatedly seeps in and I idle back to the gaff. With my kitchen appearing somewhat sorry for itself I muster up half a buttock to trudge back out to REWE for supplies. In the same fit of the CBAs that sees me parade the public realm in my hitherto-sacrosanct ‘inside clothes’, I absentmindedly obtain a leaflet which on each successive viewing leads me up a ladder of sardonic eyerolling, wistful melancholy, mildly unhinged mirth, and a fleeting fancy of gluttonous grandeur (keine Partyplatte für einen? Keine sweat! I’ll handle what you got - and don’t skimp on the balloons).

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Di. Jun 6

Oopsie! I give Dave a start when I snatch my hat back off him and slap it atop me bonce. But there’s scant time for sorries as I hustle on up to the Admiralspalast where I’ve a ticket to see Seu Jorge. Yes, that’s right, “that fella off of the ‘Life Aquatic’ film doing them foreign covers”. I’ll admit, the novelty value drew me in, too. Wes Anderson fan? Check. Bill Murray fan? Check. David Bowie fan? Do keep up at the back, there. And happening here in Berlin: sure, it held something of an offbeat appeal; I couldn’t not attend.

Scooting along into my seat, I admiringly note the period surroundings until lights down. I’m looking forward to the show but am unprepared for the spellbinding sonic rollercoaster Seu and his guitar take me and the rest of the audience on. Casually relaying between-song anecdotes of his involvement with the film and experiences on-set, he’s just as much the funny raconteur as he is the thrilling performer. The goosebumps on my forearms refuse to lie down for much of the set, and it’s been alleged that I welled up a tad at the rousingly feel-filled climax to ‘Rock’N’Roll Suicide’, though with no photographic evidence it’s your word against mine.

I’m too fraught with emotion (and too sharply dressed) to slip straight off to bed, so after a brief stumble around the U I hit up my other local, Hannibal, for a wee wind-down of a nightcap. Dave can his have his hat back later.

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Mo. Jun 5

Today confirms my suspicion that a particular household chore - namely laundry - is my own personalised form of rain dance. The sunshine that beats down as I whistle a jolly tune whilst tossing my skivvies into the drum is nowhere to be seen once the beeping summons me to collect my sodden load and hoik it out to the clothesmaid patiently awaiting me on the patio. Shaking out my garments I turn skeptical eyes to the iffy skies but continue all the same, finish up and pop back inside to read a magazine.

At the kitchen door I stand, but thirty minutes later (it was an engrossing magazine), dejectedly staring at the downpour undoing my efforts. Eh. A time arrives in everyone’s life when they realise there’s only one way to salvage such a day. I shrug, scour the web until I find a free trial of the German equivalent of Netflix, sling on a classic, and order in a curry (mainly for the comfort blanket of vino straight to my sofa but shh will ya, that whole laundry thing was pretty heavy going). 

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So. Jun 4

PlopPlopDropPlopDripPlipDripPlop. That ain’t the latest stormer hitting the decks but rather the storm hitting my decking. Impetus to clamber down my loft ladder shirks its duty and thus I loll alternately moping, reading, and sighing many a Morrissey-eqsue anguished nasal sigh, with a dollop of melodramatic hand-flinging-come-forehead-daubing thrown in for good measure.

Thankfully I perk up as the evening pulls its meteorological finger out. Shimmying into my glad rags, I prance off to Neukölln to tick off another target on my to-do list. A public house owned by a member of Mogwai, Das Gift doesn’t fail to be every inch the Scots-indie boozer my imagination renders it to be, right down to the charmingly direct lavatorial graffiti. Have I inadvertently stumbled through some wormhole into Glasgae’s West End? The chalkboard is a thing of sheer joy. I hum with unbridled pleasure as I sup ales and porters from an array of British breweries, only coming up for air to polish off a homemade radge of a sausage roll wi’ a cheeky wee chaser o’ Daddies broon.

Entering a zombie-ripe afterhours mall, I fully intend to succumb to the allure of the Rollberg Kino hidden within for the last screening of ‘Guardians Of The Galaxy 2′ (a double-whammy indulgence of my retro filmic whims if ever there was one), but I’m informed by a rehearsedly frowny-faced ticket booth attendant that it’s sold out. The one time I don’t book ahead... slap my backside and call me Murphy. Glancing through window after window on my schlep back to the U - and elbowing my way onto the train home - I realise the sheer mancount out and about tonight. A month in and I’m still tripping over the odd clod of cultural difference: Thursday might be the ‘aren’t we naughty’ schoolnight-on-the-tiles of choice back in Manchester, but here it’d seem Sunday snatches up that auspicious crown.

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Sa. Jun 3

Joining me for lunch today are these chirpy wee sparras, though they’re too savvy to fall for the old ‘trail of seed leading into the kitchen’ trick. Just as my birdseed brings all the boys to the yard, all the boys bring a salivating feline in turn, but as soon as we lock eyes he turns tail and slinks off again. Seems I’m fated to while away my time alone a little longer yet.

Stepping back inside I spy this handsome floral fellow sprung from nought over the past couple of days: I hope he’s not the handiwork of the birdseed, or my avian chums’d best be blessed with strong stomachs.

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Fr. Jun 2

Once again the sun is doing its level best to lazer my British being out of existence, but I blow a mocking raspberry skywise, grab a book and a beer, and head to the banks of the Spree for a bout of outdoors r’n’r anyhow. I bask for a couple hours in the busker-accompanied buzz of James Simon Park, and when eventually feeling the need for a change of scenery, saunter a few hundred yards and plop myself down into neighbouring Monbijoupark. 

In no rush to head immediately home, I explore at random in the vague direction of a new-to-me S station, head back downtown, and call into Neues Ufer for a cold one - seeing as it’s my local now, it’d be most remiss of me not to.

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Do. Jun 1

After slumbering away the crusty crumbs of yesterday’s funtimes I find myself free and easy this evening. I scour the local Kino listings and whaddaya know? My cherished Odeon around the corner is screening ‘Song To Song’ tonight. Let us pause and do the movie math: loose end + musically-themed narrative + liberal sprinkling of La Gosling = sign me the yass up. Besides, if it wasn’t already clear, I cannot resist the charismatic lure of an adorably old-timey cinema hall so I’m already slobbering ickily down my bit to return. What can I say? All that retro lettering and red velvet just does something for me.

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Mi. Mai 31

It’s not long before my Green Mango sofa-mates become my newfound best buds as we whoop and clap each other stagewards. Even the DJ enters into the spirit of things as he forays from his box to crack out an eerily accurate ‘Man In The Mirror’, dance moves an’ all. Somehow I’m permitted to take to the mic three times, airing my (not at all practiced, guv) Neil Young and Kelly Jones imitations before murdering then turning back to needlessly stomp on the lifeless corpse of Bowie’s ‘Young Americans’. Eh, my only witnesses are a jolly DJ, a bored barman, and two glowstick-waving businessmen from Hamburg, so stuff it.

Sadly the bar does close early but still much later than initially threatened, so feeling quite satiated by my well-oiled cathartic holler, I make my way home via the tipsily fascinating array of shopfronts along Potsdamer Straße - and an irresistible, pleasingly cruddy photobooth.

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Mi. Mai 31

Rising to a roasting afternoon I muster little inclination but to swelter on my patio awhile, handily (compared to my previous homemade arsenal) armed against insect invaders thanks to the sage advice of @laurenmary02. A slightly less sweaty evening eases in and so I pass a worthy handful of hours in a local bar or two with my Macbook, knuckling down to some life admin and resolving to get this blog up to date.

Hometime arrives and I’ve every intention of hitting the hay. Once again the Pilsner has other ideas and before you can say ‘in the interests of humanity good grief keep this bleeding mic away from me’, my Uber arrives to waltz me off to Green Mango Karaoke. This has been on my to-do list for a while and since I’m free to large it on a school night, well, now’s a good a time as any.

Slamming the taxi door behind me I wonder if my driver’s having a laugh as I approach a less-than-salubrious carpark entrance, but then I spot the decidedly inconspicuous signage and press on. The doorman tells me only four people are in meaning the venue may close in 20 minutes. Making my puppiest of eyes, I pledge to put my last cent behind the bar and put on a rip-roaring show, if you please. Gaze cast joint-wide, I realise he wasn’t exaggerating. I hit the barman for a generous free-pour of JD Tennessee Honey and scoot myself onto one wing of a sizeable corner sofa proximal to the stage, shyly avoiding eye contact with the occupants of the further end.