Berlin: An Introduction

My version of Berlin so far has been a mix of the tourist and the insider. Having arrived with a London friend in tow (coincidentally, on the same day) I started the experience with my usual routine of saying all the right things, and then doing about 5 per cent of them. The right things to say include: • I’m going to CV-bomb this town • I’m going to learn German • I’m going to listen to German radio • I’m going to apply for at least two internships every day • I’m going to explore the city when I’m not doing work related stuff • I’m not going to spend all my money on booze and clubbing What actually happened: • I got really pissed off when the photocopy place over-charged me for printing out my CVs • I got really pissed off because the photo of me on my CV was so dark it looked like I was in blackface • I turned into a bucket of weak piss whenever confronted with the question “Do you have any experience making coffee?” • I spoke about three faltering sentences in German, managing to mispronounce ‘riesling’ amongst other things, and then spent the next few minutes battling a hot flush to rival a heavily menopausal woman who’s just tripped and fallen into a furnace • I have looked at a German radio. Every day. It’s very beautiful. • I have spent many days indoors watching reruns of 90s sitcoms, accompanied by cheap booze and a creeping suspicion that 3pm is too early to be drinking. The only things I’ve really managed to stick to, ‘right’-wise, are internship applications (although it’s been sheer tumbleweeds in response); and not too much clubbing. In my opening line I mentioned I was sort of an insider. Well, aside from the literal sense of being indoors too much, I’m not really. But having locals as friends is naturally the best short-cut to all the good bits: cue some great bars, art, clubs and quality friends of friends. It’s not all been canned laughter and half-litres of Berliner, though – I managed to secure a micro-internship, every Monday for a month. Writing for a travel app is entertaining enough, although I was perhaps naively shocked to discover that the write-ups weren’t necessarily coming from the horse’s mouth: I spent my first day waxing touristic about Tel Aviv. In other news, any notion of romance has been dashed so far. A proposed date with the proprietor of a karaoke bar never eventuated when the guy in question failed to text back after suggesting a day, but not a time or place. I’ve got half a mind to return and belt out a stingingly bitter version of You’re So Vain, only I’d probably ask him for a job afterwards, which might upset the power balance in his favour once more. And not only have I been spurned by a fickle karaokemeister, but there’s also been the complication of my infected willy – two courses of antibiotics and there’s still a civil war in my urethra. So you might understand my thoughts drifting towards being not only ex-gay, but ex-sex. When it all heals up, the cries of ‘Hallelujah!’ will probably resonate as far as the Magellan Straits. Until then, X Martin