Das Leben in Deutschland

Wurst :-)

Jess, my lovely Welsh friend whom I met in Paris, in front of Chinese Pavilion at Schloss Sans Souci, Potsdam

Schloss Sans Souci

Dresden, 3 hours by train from Berlin. Great barouque East German city

A smaller Brandenburg Tor in Potsdam

Corridor at Husemann Strasse

Bizarre advertisment for cigarettes

Jess, tah-dah-ing, at Parisien Platz, Berlin. Brandenburg Tor in background

On top of the Reichstag

Prenzlauer Berg shopping

My bedroom Husemann Strasse

Frauenkirsche, Dresden

Beer and cordial (you can get green or red), drunk through a straw, very Berlin. Jess in beer garden

Dome and Fernseheturm, Museum Insel, Berlin

Århus, "arguably" Denmark's oldest city

I looked down at my jeans and noticed that once again, an ice cream stain stared me contemptuously in the face. No doubt from my last shift, despite wearing a long apron and sidestepping smeared utensils and grimy kids like a camp guy on farm duty. I was tempted to have a sniff, I wasn’t sure if the culprit had been strawberry or raspberry and nobody would notice. Resisting, I reassured myself that both were sweet inoffensive varieties, and would easily come out in the next industrial German wash. I sometimes really have too much time on my hands. But like anything we take for granted, like an old battery on Route 60-nowhere, time often leaves us when we need it most. That morning, the reason I had stepped out of the house looking like a human serviette was simple. I had a bus to catch. If I missed it that would be end to my weekend plans, my chance to visit a new country, and my chance to see a good friend. With such an important appointment it is always necessary to leave everything 'til the last minute, rush like crazy to catch the bus/train/plane and feel a lovely wave of relief when you realise, despite times' attempted sabotage, nothing would be lost. Winnie, I made it to Denmark pretty uneventfully but I must apologise for the dirty jeans.

What passed was a weekend full of spoils. Well, for me anyway. My dear friend Winnie (just Winnie, not Winifred or Winnivere and definately NOT Winniann) made it her mission it seems, to “make my weekend.” And like the Zen-like cartoon character her name conjures, she is perfectly, intrinsically designed for such missions. The days in Århus, a city on the northeast coast of Jutland, floated by like a Scandinavian yacht on the way BACK from Hobart. We went for walks by the seaside (ahh, that salty-rotten-seaweedy smell should be bottled, I have missed it terribly), shopped in town (they have shops better than IKEA!), visited castles and summer residences (unusually not redundant here), went to the cinema, meandered down old cobble-stone laneways past colourful little houses all in a row, and spent a lot of time on the couch figuring out the meaning of life. It’s not complicated at all but, for the life of me, I can’t remember the answer! We brunched, lunched and dined on all the Danish favourites (to name some: the BEST hotdogs in the world with slices of sour gherkins required and welcomed in this bun instead of being picked off, eggs that came soufflé-style at breakfast, marshmallowey sauce on waffle-coned ice cream), discussed which stories the Brothers Grimm wrote (I claimed these) and which Winnie and the Danes could claim thanks to the self-analytical insights of Hans Christian Andersen. We visited Winnie’s work, the interior like any self-respecting Danish décor, was fabulously tasteful, full to the brim of art and design, an office that could inspire the most beautiful of homes. I laughed a little at the portrait of Mary and Frederick, smack-bang as you entered, Mary having completed her apprenticeship at the College for Aspiring Princesses, or CfAP, Frederick looking all “I have the most exotic wife.” I laughed harder at the crossed out letters and funny pronunciations in the Danish language. More evidence for my theory: Scandinavians are in fact the overgrown descendants of elves, rather than stunted, prettier descendants of those horn-bearing, fearsome Vikings. It has simply been a convenient cover story, since despite some pretty horny blond people walking around in any summer-bugged Scandinavian town, real Vikings no longer exist. Best to ask the elves, they’ll tell you.

I read somewhere... that Århus is “arguably” Denmark’s oldest city- the brochure explains that since a former, and older, contender is best described as a “town” Århus wins. Yay for semantics! But the city feels old and seaworthy; the balance between tradition and modernity is handled like a pro. Pastel blues and greens blend perfectly with the Northern summer sky and the cool, brisk air soothes and lulls, it does not snap or bite once. Oh, and the seagulls! Their cooes and whistles can be heard from dawn, filling last dreams with maritime adventures. On the map, Århus is situated where Denmark’s nose is dripping. My nose was dripping too when I had to leave. I tried to get a whiff once more of that ocean, hugged Winnie goodbye, resigned myself to being even more multicoloured than when I left, and ran like crazy for the bus home.


Winnie in cafe, reminding me where I am

Beach at dusk

Centre of town, making new friends

Danish girls about to get married are required to earn money in the street to pay for the Hen's Party. She's selling drinks in the city centre on a busy Saturday afternoon. I wont mention what was stuck to the back of her costume! Luckily, the men have to make similarly embarrassing displays

Red goes faster

Mary and Fred, hanging out

Ingredients for my perfume

Wouldn't it be great if we could bottle chosen aspects of life and carry them with us? A perfume full of personal experiences. Though unlike in the book Perfume, I want a concoction for sustenance- full of the best smells, tastes, sights and sounds I find. Id collect it all up and dab some on wherever I am in the world.

It rained this afternoon and my street here in Bewrlin only became more vibrant, like the rain woke everything up after a long drought. I really feel like Im in a little oasis wonderland here in Prenzlauerberg. It's a small community in the middle of a big city full of young, vibrant people. There are more children per capita than anywhere else in Europe. The park and the markets come alive twice per week and bring people from outside the area, but mostly it's residents that sit in the cafes and come into the ice cream shop.

Sometimes I think Im hallucinating, the strangest things pass by at the most pedestrian times. The neighbourhood is like a big open air circus, complete with jugglers, musicians, candy sellers, animals and costumed characters. Or sometimes it's a timewarp and Im transported to another decade, another era where fashion and other iconic trends stopped still. You can ping pong for free in the park, share your bike lane with a horse and carriage, play fancy dress in the vintage clothes stores, and be handed a sketch of yourself by a pink-rimmed oversized sun-glassed wearing African-American in a jumpsuit as a tip for selling him a scoop of tiramissu gelato- all in the same day!

I describe so much colour and life, and it's here if its nowhere else in the world. But sometimes a warmth is missing. In itself this is counter intuitive and hard to explain. With so much creativity and energy, shouldnt there also be a contagious good mood floating around? It is perhaps the individualism I love that keeps everyone looking inward. We are, I must not forget also still in Northern Europe. You really have to look for the approachable, friendly ones. The generosity of strangers is not a given here. But when you find the right people, they are the heart notes of any good perfume. Slowly and surely things are falling into place. It's like a game of tetrus that requires quick moves, mistakes and a knowledge that like many things in life, life's perfect balance will ultimately come down to a bit of good old-fashioned luck.