... in Berlin

An early flight seemed like a sensible idea. Until the 4am alarm went off. We hadn't slept well having had a meal out with the mother and a foolishly late night. The morning news announced the likely hung parliament after May's snap election gamble backfired in spectacular fashion. The cat knew something was afoot and sulked around us in the morning.

At that hour the roads are quiet so we got to the airport in good time. This was handy as all of us were pulled over at the security check. Husband and I had left computer tablets inside our hand luggage. The tray emptying area had said we didn't need to take them out. The security scanning people disagreed, consequently the security boys were busy. When I explained to the very pleasant and reasonable young man why I had left it inside he told me, smilingly, that the customer was always right. I responded that in this scenario I rather suspected that the security team were always right. The mother was just subject to a random check. But she had put her pink handbag in the tray with Husband's rucksack. When security asked whose tray it was, he said it was his. They didn't question his ownership of the handbag, and fortunately it wasn't the contents of that which was the problem. 

As it was now breakfast time all the restaurants were full, with queues. We plumped for the queue outside Jamie's and, having got in relatively quickly, had a leisurely breakfast before going to the flight. However, we had to do a bit of re-packing at the boarding gate as the mother's handbag was considered so bulky that it was deemed a second piece of hand luggage. The re-packing was a pointless exercise. As soon as we were out of sight of the gate staff, she moved it all back again.

It was an uneventful flight, other than someone letting off an impressively stinky fart. 'Whose farted' exclaimed the mother, loudly. No one answered. Nor did they fart again.

We stepped out of the plane into a very warm Berlin. Once off the tarmac we entered a building and were immediately in the passport queue, where members of the EU were listed as EU burgers. The passport man was more interested in the lively group of young men further down the queue than in checking my details. The lads seemed harmless enough. But one of them was dressed as a chicken so an element of curiosity was probably an appropriate response. 

It was a short walk from the airport to a large concrete building where the train left from. The walk went past a wooden beer hut and grassy area where people lay in the sun to wait for their flights. It all seemed very civilised. There was also a food stall with a sign outside proudly boasting the best wurst which seemed a fantastic contradiction in terms.

The mother was now wise to the concept of old people train ticket concessions, but as exact change had to used it was too complicated to make use of the option.

When the train arrived, it was packed. We pushed our way on and stood in the aisle for the journey, during which a couple tried to steal a wallet from a girls rucksack. She turned and saw just as the man had her wallet in his hand. She grabbed her stuff back and held her rucksack closely to her chest, visibly upset. All of us who had witnessed the incident did nothing.

We got off at Ostbahnhof. So did the pickpocket couple, only to run along the platform and board a different carriage where they had not been exposed and could continue their plundering. 

We had chosen to get off early in order to see the East Side Gallery, rather than come back out for it. This was a substantial 1316 m long section of wall adorned with 105 paintings on the east side from artists across the world. It was completed in 1990 as an international memorial to freedom. Each panel of wall was the subject of a separate art work. Some were interesting, some were thought provoking. They documented a time of change and expressed the euphoria and great hopes for a better, freer future. The original art had been subject to graffiti and deterioration over the years. Renovation work has been controversial, and there was now herris fencing in front to protect against further vandalism. Overall it was underwhelming and the mother was pleased that we hadn't specifically travelled out to see it.

We returned to the station and took the S bahn to Hackescher Markt. Originally a marsh to the north of the city fortifications, this was now a thriving cultural hub. In the market square outside the station a busker was singing Wonderwall. A crowd of Brits stood around him, and joined in. It seemed particularly poignant as the song had recently become the theme tune of unity in Manchester following the terrorist bomb. 

We found the hotel, checked in, freshened up and set off for an explore. As we were quite near to a few things the mother was interest in seeing it made sense to do a circuit that took these in and would also help her get her bearings. We crossed over from the hotel to Oriengstrasse, passing a sex shop on the corner. The mother was particularly impressed by the window display of vibrators. One was turned on and placed in a swing to give a proper impression of the force of its vibration. 

We started off by seeing the Hamburger strasse statues in memory of Jews who had been held in a neighbouring building before being transported to the camps. Although many died beforehand.

We went past the Neue synagogue, glowing resplendently in the afternoon sun and found the bar that Husband and I had happened across on our first visit. Then it was a freezing day and to be indoors with a bowl of warm soup was a perfect feeling. Now it was hot and sunny, so we sat outside and indulged in beers and a sharing platter for two - that was a struggle to eat between three. But did include tasty curry wurst, potato salad and meat balls. Husband selected beers for us from the substantial menu.

The bar was much as we remembered it, quirky artwork on the wall and a basement feel due the darkly painted, dingy interior. 

While relaxing, Husband perused the phrase book. The mother said that phrase books from days of yore had vital phrases such as 'you've dropped ash in my turnups' and 'where can I restring my tennis racket'. 

I popped to loo, outside of which were two Scottish lads struggling with the cigarette machine. 'Excuse me' asked one, 'would you be able to help us'. 'Probably not' I replied, and my English accent confirmed the same thought in them as they needed help translating some German. 

We were very near the heavily graffitied building housing impromptu art studios and galleries that Husband and I had discovered on our first visit. We weren't sure if it was still there but decided to check. There was a large open space which initially gave us cause for concern, but then we saw, just beyond a scaffold clad, graffiti adorned building. It was still there. But shut up. And given the scaffolding, it was unclear how long it would still stand.

We hadn't previously seen it by day and it was an impressive building. Over the top of the building site hoarding we could see statues in the walls. Demolition, if that was the intention, seemed a shame. 

We wandered down towards museum island. A row of bars and eateries seemed to have some sort of street sign humour contest. One proclaimed ‘no hipsters’ were allowed in before correcting themselves to ‘no hamsters’. Another warned that bears may be ahead so, rather than take the risk, it was probably safer to come inside and have a drink. Then there was the deal of the day sign which offered the opportunity to select any two coffees and pay for both. And yet another boasted that they had the best looking waiting staff.

We crossed over the river towards the museums, stopping to admire a fleet of trabants drive past. Seeing the arches below the raised S bahn line Husband wanted to find the place we had squeezed into one evening, which had a carriage suspended from the ceiling. Surprisingly he found it. More surprisingly, the carriage was still there. 

We saw Brandenburg gate in the distance, at the end of Under den Linden as we crossed the road to Biebleplatz. There was much rebuilding and renovation around us. Many buildings were behind scaffold and hoardings. Half of Biebleplatz was barricaded off. Another sectioned off building was Neue Wache which was a shame as I had wanted to show the mother the enlarged version of the Kathe Kollwitz sculpture of a mother with her dead son that had sat within it. It was unclear where the sculpture now was. 

Passing Berliner Dom we reached Marienkirche shortly before it closed for the evening. The entrance of the church had an ancient frieze along the wall depicting the dance of death. It was hard to see, and the protective floor-to-ceiling screens kept the public several feet away from it. The mother said she wanted to go in to the church to see it better. I explained that this was the only view and access to it, which she seemed disappointed by. We went into the church anyway, where a woman wandered around taking pouty selfies, constantly posing, preening and positioning her hair just right - here is me by the pulpit. Here is me in the nave. I suspect she was unfamiliar with the views that the bible decrees about vanity. 

Having now achieved the broad objective of the afternoon, we went to see the fountain in the square outside, now filled with water, that Husband and I had played in over our previous new year visit when it was empty and apparently unused. 

As we were so near to the cobbled streets and alleys of Nikolaiviertel we ambled over and had a drink at the faithfully reconstructred 16^th century tavern, Zum Nussbaum. The original was said to have been a favourite watering hole of cartoonist Heinrich Zille, whose statue was just around the corner. While sitting there a street performer appeared. He turned on backing music on a speaker and then played a jazzy version of When the Saints Go Marching In on his trumpet, breaking off from playing to sing; totally unfazed by the fact that he didn't really know the words. It was very jolly and even the birds seemed to singalong with him.  He merrily sang and played the chorus multiple times before deciding we had probably heard enough, and came round to ask for money. While Husband and I are not football people, this tune is the song of a local derby football rival so it was difficult for us to fully enjoy it. 

Husband and I were starting to feel the lack of sleep, and the sky indicated that the weather was going to take a turn for the worse, so we headed back. On our return to Hackescher Markt we decided to stop and eat, before going back to the hotel. Husband only wanted a snack, I wanted more than a snack and mother only wanted apple strudel so we picked somewhere based on what was on its pudding menu and if it looked like it could accommodate our strange meal intention. We found a perfect candidate in the square, and sat outside under its ceiling of umbrellas.

Following dinner we found ourselves tempted by the cocktail menu, and noted that Sweet Pussy Deluxe had Liquor 43 in it. The martini espresso we had had in Melbourne used Liquor 42, so presumably this was the bottle next to it. In the context of a pussy cocktail, Husband suggested that 'the flavour next door' could be something quite different and unexpected. Husband and I ended up going for whisky, but picked a cocktail for the mother which included creme de menthe, cranberry liqueur, basil, raspberry and cherry - basically the drink would cover her 5 a day. I had a sip and said that it tasted like pesto. 'Like bisto?' questioned the mother, possibly already a little bit drunk.

Feeling full we pondered the likely impediment to shipping that would occur in the morning. We needed to linger a little longer as the rain came, but under the umbrellas (which now rocked in the wind) and wrapped in the restaurant blankets we stayed dry and warm.

Back at the hotel Husband mentioned to the receptionist that he had been struggling to connect to the wifi. The receptionist said that it had been re-set earlier in the day but that if he still had problems, let her know and she would come up to the room to help. The mother immediately joked that this was such a tempting offer that he was bound to take it up. Judging by the look on the receptionist’s face, she would not now be coming up to our room, under any circumstances, no matter what emergency may arise. 

We slept well, waking 10 minutes before our scheduled meeting time for breakfast as the alarm had been set to English time, Blackberry failing to auto adjust to German time. 

However, we managed to get up and ready promptly to meet the mother and go down for breakfast, which was sumptuous - fruit, yogurts, compote, meat, cheese, antipasti, pastries and smoked salmon. The yoghurt was served in individual glass pots, as was the compote and Husband noted that eating it required a process that was similar to a Muller corner, but slightly less satisfactory.

I had taken the room key downstairs, but gave it to Husband as we left breakfast. As we got upstairs he took out the huge hunk of metal that the key was attached to, only it wasn't. He looked at the hunk of metal for a minute or two, mentally questioning the absence of the key. I suggested that it may have separated downstairs and still be on the table, so Husband got back in the lift. I then put my hand in my pocket and found the key, pulling it out to show Husband just as the lift doors shut. The hilarity of this made me and the mother double up laughing and we hadn't fully recovered by the time Husband came back up in the lift. Oddly, he seemed to find it all a lot less amusing.

We set off to the station together, running a bit behind our intended schedule. However, the morning light on the brick built high level station building was stunning so the mother and I paused to take photos. 'I thought we were in a rush' said Husband. 'We are in a rush' replied the mother and I in unison. We needed to change from S bahn to U bahn at Friedrickstrasse and set the mother off on her days touring from there.

After initially struggling to find the U bahn, we successfully navigated our way to Templehof airport. The airport is a thirties era gargantuan monolith, which ceased operations as an airport in 2008. The main building was once among the top 20 largest buildings on earth. On entering, we found ourselves inside a huge foyer with check-in desks installed down one side, a departure board at the far end and a symbolic baggage carousel at the far end, with a perpetual circle of eclectic item.

In the middle was a one man band on a platform, playing jolly music on a piano which seemed a bit incongruous in such an imposing, aggressive building.

We went outside where the thirties feel and solid dominance of the building remained prominent while the two huge wings of the airport stretched out into the distance on either side. The massive canopy-style roof extending over this was able to accommodate airliners of the 1950’s and 1960’s, protecting passengers from the elements.

And beneath this was the e-village and a range of food and drink options as well as table and chairs, deckchairs and an area fill with bean bags and soft lying areas on which people were stretched out, asleep. However, we needed to head straight for the pit lane walk queue which we were just about on time for. The pit lane walk was interesting, and far quieter than in F1. Formula E was starting to get serious.

After the pit walk, we explored the exhibits under the canopy, which included student built electric cars that were mini sized, but could still just about accommodate a human driver. There was also a DHL apple cart - filled with delicious apples - but more cleverly it followed its owner around like a dog, altering speed based on the speed the owner walked, and responding to him raising a hand to halt it entirely, before continuing to trundle along behind him when he walked off again. 

We watched qualifying and then foraged for food - as had everyone else so the queues were reasonably long. While eating we watched the footage of a car race operated by computer. A man was in the car for safety reasons, but was basically a passenger. This seemed a most alarming situation to be in, entirely trusting the computer to whizz you round the track safely.

A brass band wandered through, dressed like students with pretensions and a singer who belted out the words through a loud speaker. There was a band on stage who were rather good, although it was a shame that all the stuff they sang was English. But they did do 99 red balloons in German which was quite fun.

It was hot and sunny under a blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds, so the shade of the canopy was a welcome relief, and the forecast rain didn't look likely to appear.

The race was relatively uneventful. We were sitting on the first corner and rather expected some coming together when they set off, but it didn't happen. A late overtake meant that the lead changed and the race was ultimately won by Rosenqvist who crossed the line as his battery level fell to 0%. In the post race interview he was asked if this was good luck or had been timed to perfection. Naturally he indicated the latter.

We texted the mother to say we were heading back and would meet her at the hotel. Given how many were at the E prix we got back remarkably quickly, so decided to pop into Hackesche Hofe on the way as the mother had said that this was somewhere worth visiting. We were initially unclear why. There was a courtyard surrounded by tall building, decorated in glazed, coloured bricks. This led through to a network of other smaller courtyards which were quiet, pretty in an understated way and filled with greenery but didn't have the 'must see' impact that the mother had implied.

We came out a different way and headed back to the hotel. And then we saw a heavily street art adorned alleyway. We went in. It was a dead end but curled around grungy buildings that housed art studios and bars, only distinguishable by the rustic tables outside spilling over with hipsters, and every wall was covered in artwork. In some places, it had clearly been there a while as ivy and shrubs grew over it.

This must be what the mother had referred to, and it felt like the new home of the artists who had once occupied the thickly graffitied building in Oriengstrasse, now empty and looking set for demolition. But this too was prime real estate, so the length of their tenure seemed doubtful.

On the street outside, the lampposts were thickly pasted with a thousand posters that were gradually decomposing and peeling off giving them the look of badly fitting leggings on chunky thighs. 

We met up with the mother back at the hotel, and went back to the grungy area of the Hofe as she had failed to find it in her earlier forage. Husband banned any photo taking until he was sitting down and on the outside of a beer. Once this was achieved, the mother wandered off to take pictures of the vast array of street art, while the air around Husband and I gently filled with the perfumed aroma of cannabis. The mother was wearing a shocking ensemble - a lime green and floral flouncy shirt with black trousers adorned with flowers.

We were unsure what to do for dinner, so went over to Friedrickstrasse with the intent of going to one of the restaurants under the railway arches. On the walk from the station we passed a lot of homeless people, crying and shouting either because of too much or not enough alcohol.

It was early so many of the restaurants were largely empty. Consequently we opted for the one which seemed busiest - The 12 apostles. It was an Italian - and huge, stretching under several of the arched rooms beneath the railway, the ceilings of which were ornately painted in religious imagery. As there was a wood fired pizza oven in the corner, we all went for pizza. And they were massive. We each struggled to eat even half of our respect pizzas. The mother, whose pizza was barely touched, asked me to have some. I was too full, but also it had pepperoni which I don't like and which therefore served as adequate excuse. I offered some of mine to Husband, but it had figs on it and he didn’t believe in mixing sweet with savoury. And Husband's had anchovies, which neither I nor the mother liked. As we realised this, the mother reminded us that we had originally planned to share and had then brilliantly each of us ordered pizzas that the others wouldn't eat! The mother claimed that she would have something else had she known, and Husband claimed likewise. 

The mother then started to doubt the wood burning cooking of the pizzas, saying that she could see into the oven and there was no wood. Husband pointed out that the wood burning would usually be underneath rather than pizzas draped over a pile of wood inside the oven itself.

When Husband mentioned that he needed to go for a pee the mother informed him that in Germany it is traditional for men to sit down. Husband responded by saying that over the last couple of days he'd seen a lot of men at urinalysis and none of them sat down. 

We walked back to the hotel, partly hoping to walk off the immense fullness from dinner, over museum island and paused to watch people dancing in the grounds of a riverside bar. There was a huge crowd dancing, and all doing it properly; as in, paired up and doing the same dance. 

We passed the sex shop on our way back, which was attracting much excitement and amusement, before returning to the hotel for bed.

In the morning, slightly late for our agreed meet time, I knocked on the mother’s door. No response. This seemed odd. I knocked again. Still nothing. I wondered whether she had gone out and not noticed the time. I knocked again. And then heard a noise from within shortly followed by the door opening and the mother appearing, dripping wet, covered in soap and holding a barely adequate towel around her, which she momentarily lost grip of. She had woken early, turned off her alarm and then fallen back asleep, waking again only minutes ago. In short, she needed a bit longer. This much was clear and I happily turned my gaze away and let her shut the door and return to her shower. 

A short while later she emerged - wearing another reasonably offensive floral outfit, and we went down for breakfast. She ate, but claimed that she was still full from Friday, let alone last night. When I questioned the ensemble she responded that patterns were back in fashion. I observed that she was perhaps getting confused with the 1970's. With her flowery get up and cream hat the mother could be identified as a tourist from a good fifty paces.

As we left the hotel that morning we noticed 4 small brass plaques on the pavement outside. They had the name, date of birth and date of death of members of a Jewish family, who had presumably lived in this building before heir untimely end. It was a sobering thought. We took the train over to the west of the city. A couple of musicians boarded and drummed out a jazzed up version of on when the saints. This was clearly the only song known by the local street performers.

Our objective of the morning was to see the ruins of the Kaiser Wilhelm memorial church with its bomb shattered tower.  Built in 1895 it fell victim to Allied bombing in November 1943 leaving only the severely damaged west end standing. We got a reasonable view of it from the train. When we disembarked the mother went to consult her map for directions. Husband, recalling what we had seen only minutes before from the train and where we had seen it, commented that it was just over there, and a map probably wasn't necessary as he was pretty sure that he could reliably point us in the correct direction. Which indeed he did.

We had the same feeling about the western city as we had had in our previous visit. It just seemed a bit flat, something and nothing. There wasn't the vibrancy and interest which you had in the east.

Having seen the ruin, and with time to kill as the museums we wanted to see didn’t open until 11am we found a bar for a drink. The mother went to the loo, and was gone for ages. When she finally re appeared it transpired that she had come back out of a different door of the bar (for reasons unclear) and then lingered by empty tables, assuming we had also gone to the loo - all the while getting strange looks from the waitress who, the mother concluded, had thought her mad. Husband decided that the waitress was a very astute judge of character, particularly given that she had only just met the mother. 

As we had around an hour until needing to make tracks towards the airport we parted ways so that we could go to the Helmet Newton museum while the mother went off to her museum. She stood at the crossroads bouncing around and waving. As we gradually moved out of sight she bent her body round the corner to keep watching us, bouncing, waving and blowing kisses all the while.

After our visit to the museum, we had a relatively straightforward journey to the airport, but texted the mother with details of what train platform to be on for her return the following day. We got back to the airport early, so popped into to wooden beer hut for a drink and a snack rather than killing time in the tedium of the airport departures lounge. 

The airport put us through body scanners and we then sat upstairs in what seemed a particularly small waiting area. It was only when we came to go to the gate that we went round the corner and found the usual airport food, drinks and shops arrangement. 

As soon as we were all aboard, the captain thanked us for our prompt boarding and then merrily informed us that we wouldn't take off for another 45 minutes, during which time a child in front of us and a child a couple of rows behind us both screamed, more or less constantly. I have to admit, my feelings about the situation were similar.

Finally in the air we scuttled through the skies and soon approached Gatwick, at which point the captain again came on air to let us know that Gatwick was busy, so we would have a pleasant (repetitive) view of the south coast as we would be circling around it for 20 minutes or so. This all amounted to an overall long and frustrating delay.

Finally we landed to an England that was refreshingly cool after the heat of Berlin. I suggested to Husband that for our next trip we should go somewhere less warm. ‘That's handy’, he replied, ‘our plans might just cover that’.