It’s Friday morning and I’m sat researching the best way to clean mouldy bath toys. This time yesterday I was stood at the breakfast buffet in my Berlin hostel deciding between chocolate cake and a raisin swirl. What a difference a day makes indeed.
Berlin was always high up on my list of cities to visit. The rich history, the art scene, the general vibe of a bustling metropolis; I knew it’d be a packed trip.
After getting overexcited and overdoing it slightly at breakfast on day one, I headed to my first stop, Brandenburg Gate, where I befriended Riley, a lovely woman from Tennessee. She asked if I’d take her photo and we got talking about our solo travels. Berlin was one night of her eight-week European adventure.
From there, I proceeded to conquer every other tourist attraction on Tuesday’s list:
The Holocaust memorial, Checkpoint Charlie and its exhibition, the Reichstag building, the Tiergarten and its Memorial to the Sinti and Roma Victims and the Berlin Wall and its East Side Gallery (all 1,316 metres of it). Of course, I stopped every few seconds to take photos of the wall, amassing about 50 images of the artwork. (If my mother had been with me, we’d still be standing there.)
I explored the arty, bohemian district of Kreuzberg, wandering round it’s cool quirky streets, browsing vintage shops and quietly repeating “no room in your suitcase” over and over.
Then there was the gigantic book store in Mitte; Dussmann das KulturKaufhaus, which reminded me of afternoons nipping into Foyles on Charing Cross road and emerging hours later.
I took myself to the English books section and pored over the vast selection. I’d have stayed longer but it was getting late and I was ravenous. Tearing myself away, I found an Italian restaurant close by and quickly devoured what appeared to be a kilogram of spaghetti bolognese.
Usually a dessert woman, I opted instead for a cocktail at a nearby Asian place. I was not served a cocktail. No milk or juice seemed present in this concoction.
What I was given, was essentially a Pina Colada shaped glass filled with rum. So much rum, that after consuming half the glass and feeling a touch woozy, I got up and asked the lady for more/any coconut cream so as not to pass out on rum.
Mildly intoxicated I made my way back to my hostel, making a pit-stop for ice cream on the way. (Apparently a stomach full of spag bol and rum isn’t sufficient.)
The following morning, still wondering why I felt the need to order a “cocktail”, I climbed the 267 steps up the Berlin Cathedral for some rather impressive views, and achy thighs.
I roamed Museum Island, wishing I had time to pop into all of them, but landing on the German Historical Museum, which was as thought provoking and horrifying as I knew it would be.
Craving some modern art, I took a bus to the New National Gallery, which housed all the magic I was hoping for.
Unable to comprehend the idea of not returning to my new favourite bookstore, after a quick dinner, I re-visited my beloved Dussmann das KulturKaufhaus. Open till midnight, I found myself a reading nook and stayed till 22.45, when I began to feel nervous at the thought of walking home alone.
An inspiring few days packed with the perfect balance of history, art and apparently books, I adored my stay in Berlin.
Now to find some bleach for those bath toys.
Angela blogs at The Colourful Kind
