Paris to Berlin — Wondrous Adventures

Well it started badly. The fuel shortage in Auckland had us re-routed through LAX on a flight without our upgrade! Gasp. When we got there, an earthquake in Mexico City meant that the airport was swarming with re-routed visa-less Mexicans - just the folks you want stretching out ahead of you in Trump’s orange-tinted America. The innate superiority of US systems meant we were forced to fully enter the USA even though we were in transit – it just doesn’t occur to them that there are actually people out there who would prefer to go elsewhere. After three hours of LAX’s special brand of beauraucratic arsholeness, I lost the plot and found myself snarking at the overweight, overly arrogant, holier-than-though bi-atch brandishing her puny authority with skin-crawling smugness. Even T was taken aback. I really needed that upgrade…

We spent two delightful days with Riley. Paris is charming always, but especially so from a ‘local’s’ perspective. We forwent the usual scene and spent our time strolling around a neighbourhood flea market, drinking tea at the colourful central Mosque, or at street-side cafes in the university district, soaking up the Frenchness. Surprisingly, away from the tourist areas people are kind and very respectful of one another - the village that is the real Paris. Parisians read books or talk earnestly in cafes (nary a cell phone to be seen), they hold doors open for one another on the Metro, and are quick to gently touch your arm and say “pardon” if they bump into you. One waiter amused us with his terrific arm-waving Frenchness “zee Americans, zey say zey ‘ave freedom because zey can carry a gun, we say, ‘Why are you ‘ere zen? Go a-way!”

With damp eyes we left Paris (bye Riley-girl), and were whisked through stunning French countryside at 320km per hour aboard our two storied, quiet, French table-serviced train. Such a grown-up way to travel.

Berlin is not what we expected at all. The train station near our hotel was indistinguishable from ‘Yobbsville UK’ – dirty concrete stairways, studded black leather thugs stumbling about clutching half drunk bottles, and the lingering scent of urine. An extremely thin, extremely white-faced chap was half-standing, half-slumped against a filthy wall, his head lolling uncontrollably –auditioning for Trainspotting II? A soccer game was on TV in a nearby bar, and eruptions of cheering and singing went on well into the wee hours. The scene was repeated at 8.30am the next morning.

I swear Berlin (Potsdam) is the setting for every WWII spy novel ever written. This is where Hitler agreed to align with the Prussians to take over Europe; where Russian and Western spies were exchanged on a bridge in the middle of the night; where the KGB had their secret headquarters; and, where Stalin, President Trueman and Winston Churchill finalised the divvying up of the spoils of WWII. It is also where Bowie wrote Heroes, and where one of the best ever films, The Never Ending Story, was made! (BTW, if you haven’t seen it, The Lives of Others is a really good insight into the strange watched lives of East Berliners before the fall of the wall.) The streets are grungy and covered in graffiti, and there is clearly a significant drug problem. Bowie came here to try and kick his cocaine habit – into the heroin capital of the west! Homeless, beggars and buskers are common. Yet turn a corner and you will be greeted by a magnificent Cathedral or museum, its stone facade deeply pocked with bullet holes and shrapnel scars. The city took a pounding during the war, and rather than rebuild and forget, Berliners have chosen to leave powerful reminders everywhere.

The food is fabulous – near and middle eastern delights abound. The Israeli cafes are staffed by dead ringers for Jesus. Long wavy hair, dark sunken eyes and resting mournful face. Its great.

Graffiti of the week: "Fat Cops don't run"

Wir bein zwei Berliners (with apologies to JFK)