And then 2 weeks went by…

Been a bad blogger.

Mother said I shouldn’t blog about other people’s children especially when I am being paid to teach them. But seeing as other people’s children constitute 90% of the hilarity and interest of my life these days, this rather limits me.

The problem with this cyber diary silliness is that once you start you feel that if you don’t continue your life will only ever exist as one page, one static insignificant point in internet history. It’s not even like a one hit wonder (even if it were a  ‘hit’) becuase they give no promise of continuation. It’s like a tour which finishes after the introductory talk, all you get is safety advice, bad jokes and a the feeling that it’s not gonna be like what it looked in the pictures. Anyway, all I mean is that I have felt guilty ever since I started this that I have not continued. You may even say I have felt under fair amount of (word)press-ure to reblog. SO here goes. For my concience and ye who humour me.

Following mothers advice I shall limit my Kindergarten spiel to one rather mortifying event which includes no Kiddies and reflects only my own humiliation.

After about 5 minutes of living, working and breathing Kindergarten air I had contracted 101 diseases and bugs. Needless to say I had a constant runny nose and a tickle in my throat. At lunch I thought it wise to nip to the pharmacy and buy some vitamin C tablets to protect me from this barrage of foreign antibodies.

An hour later and back on the premises I am found – by three worried mothers – squatting on the bathroom floor attempting to see into into the tiny mirror and trying desperately to wash what appears to be cocaine from my nose and from the sink.  Looking up at my audience I begin to laugh inanely at their expressions of concern and bewilderment and explain – ‘Oh – haha – you see, I’m on MEDICATION’ (I accentuate the last word as if it explains everything, in doing so realising that it is really not the appropriate word and if they didn’t think I was on drugs before they most certainly will now. My tendency to garble the English language in awkward situations remains – it seems – as strong as ever.)

I then back out ,muttering ‘Powder yes, haha like SNOW! Mmm cold yes? So COLD! Tablets you see, EXPLODED!! haha.’ and dabbing at my white powder encrusted face with a handful of wet wipes. I then follow the trail of what is in fact crushed dissolvable vitamin c tablets (this does not mean you can dissolve them in your mouth, a very important and not necessarily obvious point, one I shall certainly be writing to the vitamin c men about) along the corridor and back to the cloakroom where I had attempted the hasty consumption of vitamin c tablets which resulted in the cocaine volcano in my mouth and nose. Sighed and smiled. At least I hadn’t tried to smoke the stuff?

Ok too much said already on that front. I like the kinders and usually they like me.

Right, so now it’s Sunday. Today I visited the nearby flohmarkt at Rathaus Schoneberg where I bought:

White leather sheepskin lined boots: 8€ 

Thick wool arran jumper: 8€

Wool gloves: 3€

Leather trousers (ironically of course): 1€

I nearly bought a very lovely but very huge mohair cape for 90€ but luckily thought better of it.

The market was full of junk and probably quite a few fleas (especially on the 1€ tables) but there were quite a few bits and bobs stalls brimming with oddities and mismatched pieces of History which I look forward to rummaging through on a warmer day. (It is still -8 here which is comparatively warm but still not quite mild enough to amble.)

Laden with my spoils in old assorted carrier bags I stumbled into the first open establishment selling coffee to warm my blue fingerkuppen. It turned out to be a nice little kebab shop where I ordered:

1 kaffee: 80 cts

and, much to the owners -and my own – surprise, half a chicken, on its own: 1.50€

I felt awfully I don’t know – German? Eastern? Poor?? Dickhead? Cold? – sitting at a little creaking table in the corner with a black turkish coffee warming my fingerless gloved hands and dressed in new (but old) wool and fur. Could this be it? My own bohemia?

But then. Oh shit. The four year old turkish girl at the next table asks for nutella with her kebab, ruining my timeless moment of rustic citylife. Or maybe she just gets it better than I do? Maybe she’s the real bohemian, the real alternative here. I can’t believe I have been outquirked by a 4 year old girl in a mickey mouse jacket.

Mental note: order nutella with my next currywurst and watch awed eyes widen behind thick rimmed glasses. Ironic FOOD!? How did we not think of that?? 

On seeing the dish in question in the flesh (and in the nutella) I hasten to add that I sincerely hope ironic eating – at least of the nutella+kebab variety – does not catch on. If anyone had wondered how to make a doner kebab look less appetising well here is your answer. (I had no camera but I’m sure you can use your imagination.)

Oh my GOTT, on a completely different but slightly related note which I can’t believe I neglected to mention before: In Germany,you can get Milka philadelphia!??  That’s like halfway to a cheesecake… in your sandwich. Wow. In fact this discovery nearly prompted me yo do a best/worst things i’ve found blog. But now it’s kinda defunct as chocoloate philly was definitely the highlight.

Ok, so what else have I done? LOADS. Speed through my first 2 weeks?

Walking east then north then east again then back west. Nearly spending all money in COLOURS KREUZBERG pay per kilo vintage ship on coats and dresses. Settle for (real!?) fur purple scarflet for 3€ found in an off road antique shop which was a brilliant purchase and has since slept soundly upon my clavicle.

Take arty photos of nothings.

Marvel at the sense and the shape of Berlin and its skylines and its groundlines which run along like a family of centuries. Follow the pavements stopping only for coffee or a quick look up.

Come across a gallery opening for Erich Rauschenbach. Listen to his speech, understand 3 words, clap and nod all the same. Look at the pictures for 10 minutes smiling and nodding then exit though the back door untouched by the art but exhilirated by my ability to drift through it.

Dinner and wine with friends which is delicious and civilised in German and English. Bar in Wedding. Very drunk Indian man who thinks he’s a millionaire and desperately buys everyone drinks to prove it. Keeps asking for champagne – stupid question as this is Berlin Hipster territory – only bubbles here are ironic speech bubbles screen printed onto  your tote bags. End up at a club in mitte where we dance dance dance till 5 or 6.

Walk walk walk this way that way u-bahn s-bahn kaffee pretzel. More snow. Freeze a little getting lost among the nausea of the holocaust and its memorial.

Then my first working week. Getting rather fond of the S1.

A quick trip to Wannsee after work one day is very lovely despite the cold and the huge ghostly villas which block the icy surface from our path.

Friday brings a private tour round the Reichstag which is wonderful in the snow beside the frozen spree. So vast an expanse of meeting rooms and security checks and tunnels, so many tunnels… seem to contradict the significant openness of Norman Foster‘s dome. Where are the decisions made? What are the decisions?Politics seems evermore to be an endless goose chase down miles and miles dim tunnels which cross but never connect, laid out by miners in the dark.

Then for a cocktail in Schoneberg, a bleeding finger, a smokey bar, an even smokier bar in Neukolln and a rejection from Berghain.

A perfect Saturday of hungover shopping and giggling with girls. I finally buy a big warm duvet coat and then it’s time for music, pizza, red wine and a couple of Isreali’s.

Another bar and then a private party which we are led to by some friends from the train. Dancing, talking, a strange coincidence, a blur.

Wake up to more snow. A plan, a turkish bakery for stale provisions, a train a frozen lake, a perfect day. The most beautifully tree trimmed pane of calm. Spread with fresh creamy snow and scattered with black peppercorn marbles which actually look more like burnt matchsticks as they skate and stroll in the rare busyness of this space.

 

We join them – unfortunately not on skates – and make our way across the frozen depths. Ice hockey, excited dogs,children and sweethearts pulled upon wooden sleighs, yelps and laughter as all skid on black ice, black and white or colour?

A much needed gluwein  from a real Haus am See and waiter who looks like Jim Carey’s German doppelganger.

There was more but that’s enough for today.

Tag 2

After some Kaffee und einen Apfel I found my way across the western suburbs to my first interview.

Leaving the S Bahn at Botanischer Garten I rushed(already running a little late) through pretty and sleepy residential allees, the delicately crafted windows of the art nouveau apartment blocks  squinting as the morning sun woke up their reflections and brightened their shadowy faces.

The interview was for a job as a Kindergarten teacher. It was – as I had found out just as I was leaving – to be in German. I had consequently spent the S Bahn journey reading my dictionary, but it was a rather quick journey so I only got as far as abfurhmittel (laxative) and I hoped I wouldn’t have to resort to this latest piece  of vocabulary.

The Kindergarten was a simple one storey building which sat among a green, tree scattered play ground. On this beautifully frosty morning the wooden train, nestled between towering oaks, looked as if it could have rolled in from the snaking railway which the playground backed on to. And I was rather tempted to climb into the carriage and wish for Na?rnia.

I was welcomed by a prim but smiley and unintimidating lady who led me to the office. After a bit of stunted German they kindly agreed to do the interview in English. Phew, no need for laxative chat, at least not in German. At first they asked about my experience with children. I enthusiastically glorified babysitting and spoke passionately about the intriguing, fascinating and touching existence of infants.

They then took me to meet the infants. This scared the shit out of me as the aforesaid fascination etc.. is largely theoretical, and in truth I often have no clue what to do with kleine kinder.

The school separates its little ones into age groups. Mice,  bunnies, dinosaurs and dragons. ( I think there is another stage of fantastical or rodent branded childhood – or perhaps both combined, Jigglypuffs? – but I have forgotten it). I wondered if the children went through a process of mascuclation (opposite of emasculation?) in turning from a mouse to a bunny to a dinosaur to a dragon. I also hoped my fear of personified animals was not going to be an issue.

So I followed Frau Kindergarten to our first stop, die mause. She opened the door and ushered me into a bright open room decorated with charming scribbles and minuscule furniture which both charmed and terrified me. And there were die mause. Seated around kleines table in kleines chairs they looked like a scene from a huggies summit. As I uttered an apologetic ‘Hallo!’ – mit awkward grin – I was met with a mixture of utter disinterest and confused disdain. I turned to my interviewer to find her and the class teacher beaming at me expectantly. Feeling like the fraud the kids obviously saw me as I edged towards them, crouching like a morris dancer to match their shin level faces.

‘Hallo!’ I tried again.

Open mouthed silence.

‘I am Eleanor’ . Pronounced in some kind of Caribbean accent.

‘What is your name?’  I ask, looking round for some sympathetic little mouse. Then realising the confusingness of this undirected question, I point to the nearest child – a little blonde boy in a green sweater.

‘What is your name?’  I repeat, almost aggresively. Then, without pausing to hope for an answer, I continue –

‘Your jumper – green! Me – I love green!Mmm. Yes green – is good for me – you too?’ All of this pronounced in some horrible accentual love child of eastern European and Indian. He looks at me like the crazy person I am, then quickly turns back to his plastic pieces of colour. Feeling the eyes of the other giants in the room on me, I turn to green jumpers neighbour – a curly haired girl.

‘Hallo!’

She giggles. Definitely an improvement.

‘You curly. I curly.’ I point to our respective manes.

She giggles.

‘Hair!’ I shout, as if just discovering the secret to eternal life.

She stops giggling. Her face crumples and I watch on in horror as she gets ready to wail. But, by some mad touch of god, she does not. Deciding i’m worth neither her tears not attention she turns back to her fun puzzle.

Frau senses it is time to go and I am led, gratefully,  out of the mice cage.

I make pointless and bizarre comments about the building as I follow her, so as not to discuss my (lack of) interaction with my potential class.

‘This is such a nice building!’ It is not – we are walking through a very low ceilinged windowless corridor.

‘Wow. Children make such brilliant artists don’t they!’ http://www.thebestpageintheuniverse.net/c.cgi?u=irule Nuff said.

She shows me the toilets.

‘Wow! Koool. Very important!’ What, toilets? Fair point, but do I need to tell her?

As her hand goes for the door to the bunnies my stomach lurches and I see 101 rather than flopsy looming over me.

Here goes.

‘HALLO!’ Oh god.

‘I AM ELEANOR!’ Somehow my voice has got still louder and has taken on a rather nasty shrillness.

I get as far as ‘WHAT IS -‘  before a little boy runs off screaming to hide behind a bean bag.

I seek comfort in a child who has managed to improve upon his centimetres by scaling a pile of cushions.

‘You’re a mountaineer!’ I say, quite calmly and interestedly really. But he obviously has no idea what I’m talking about.

So I try and mime it. I look like a monkey playing drums.

He looks shocked and nearly falls off his peak and I quickly retreat out of the danger zone, still repeating ‘Mountain’ in a new accent every time – as if this may help the poor boys comprehension.

The rest of the ordeal continues much the same.

I also meet the cook. She is ladelling Jamie Oliver‘s worst nightmare onto some hospital trolleys.

‘This is our cook.’ Frau explains helpfully.

‘Hallo!’ (This seems to have become something of a nervous tick.)

Silence.

‘Are you good?’

She looks at me as if I have just spat in her broth,then turns back to churn it.

Frau steps in.

‘The children are very  excited by the cook.’ Oh..

‘Especially on Thursday when they must spend some time here in the kitchen with her. We always hear many noises and shriekings!’ Well squeakings…

Anyway. Quick jump to the end. Frau said (almost genuinely!?) that she would love to give me the job. But that it is a problem that I don’t speak German. (After today’s performance I felt that this was the least of my worries!)

She explained that I would need to communicate with the parents and other staff in German. I said I understood completely, getting ready to leave. Then she said she wanted to offer me a trial.

So, it seems I shall return to the farmyard next week. Lord have mercy.

I had another interview and spent some time writing in a wonderfully smokey gay bar but now it is late and this city owes me some sleep.

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