Paulitko Accounts

Leaving

The craziness of the week left little room for anticipation and forward thinking but now it was here I seamlessly transitioned into the travelling mindset, to me primarily headed by an openness for the unknown and total adaptability for whatever I find. The depleted levels of creativity from late nights working were quickly re-energised.

I hadn’t been this long ‘alone’ since the Camino however likewise to then, I realise one is never really alone when travelling unless they choose to be. A person open to companionship will find it and right enough, throughout Berlin especially, I had it in abundance.

“I Travel Solo, not Alone”

I was happy to be leaving the country by myself in any case, especially after the social bonanza of a trip to Madrid the week before and the general progression of the year so far following a major breakup and essential reshuffle of most aspects of my life. The chance to put boots to the tarmac and receive the enrichment that comes with exploration sounded pretty ideal.

Arriving

I tend to travel with the natural flow of things, very rarely in a hurry and relying on spontaneity and instinct to find the things I’m supposed to find. Berlin started off this way; getting off the bus far too early, jumping on a metro for the city centre only to be distracted by Karl Marx Straβe so got off there, walked through streets upon streets of Kebab shops and Hertha Berlin stickers before settling in a café to order some food where despite my only German being “Ich Spreche Kein Deutsch”, I ended up feeling welcome to the country and received my first taste of the wonderful hospitality characteristic from all Berliners I’d meet.

Walking is my mode of travel, there’s no better way to know a place than by ploughing through the avenues and routes and feeling the ambience. Stumbling across street art, political messages and sudden historic landmarks; the grey city appealed to me, encouraged me.

The hostel was a quite large but compact building ran mostly by Australians who presented the place superbly well. Extras included in the cost involved free dinners on the occasions they had time to cook and breakfast too but most welcome to me was the chilled water machine in the foyer. It was a simple addition however so appreciated and the ever-available supply of fresh cold water likely saved me from a hangover or two with the subsequent social drinking to come.

After washing up I chilled downstairs with Paul Theroux’s ‘On the Plain of Snakes’ (a tremendous book I was halfway through already and had utterly devoured by the time I reached Venice) while writing in my own book, something I rarely don’t have on my person at any given time and virtually never without when travelling. Following was the 20:00 dinner where the hostel erupted with life. One kitchen table and one living area table of 12-15 people apiece, a plethora of nationalities and languages and cultures, most talking and introducing for the first time in an explosion of socialisation.

I Travel Solo, not Alone.

Alejandro: my Cantabrian roommate now living in Denmark, lovely guy who I aim to see again. Looks a little like a WWII fighter pilot.

Tanya: older of two Madeira sisters, lives in Manchester and has picked up the accent well. Very beautiful, good to talk to.

Her younger sister: a bit of a pain in the ass to be honest,

Manuel: another guy I hope to see again. Argentinian, Boca fanatico, closer ages with me and stayed for the same number of days. We’d get on brilliantly during our time there and both stressed the point when leaving that each has a bed in each other’s countries if we’re ever there (which I plan to).

Arhan: Turkish guy from Trabzon. Big guy, super friendly, more outspoken and direct than others. Loves sharing his country and culture, very proud. Got pretty drunk. I really liked him.

Yash: Indian living in Birmingham, had been to Scotland and talked very highly of the place. Clearly intelligent, perhaps struggled with the alcohol nearer the end.

Arnauv and Richard: Australian friends, amazing guys and I had endless time for them. They approached conversations so well, eager to learn about life and ask good questions while making intelligent links from what they learned to aspects from their own home. Genuinely seemed to invest in every conversation, lovely company.

Brazilian man: good guy, Vasco de Gama fan and we really connected over football with mutual surprise and delight of what we knew of each other’s clubs. Handsome, has a Serbian girlfriend and we shared our appreciation for the treasures of Eastern Europe not really taught in common education. Oddly enough, I never really seen him again following this night.

Icelandic person: absolute firecracker of a personality, nothing was too much to share. I really liked them, so much self-confidence and assuredness in a very attractive way. Always seemed to be moving around and dictated the conversations they were involved in.

A good start, where I could really stretch my legs socially and move with the confidence that comes from scenarios like this. It was me that got the tequila to share and more wine for the Calimocho and while there’s no doubt someone else would have stepped up to the plate if I hadn’t, I was delighted my actions contributed to a fantastic night where fun was had by all.

I found myself lacking the words to summarise the experience when writing in my book. I only wrote that it was exactly what I was hoping for, simply wonderful and deserving of life.

First Real Day

A drenched and windy looking outdoors made my alcohol induced lie-in feel less shameful, where the break in the weather ended up being timely for when I was ready to leave. I briefly noted that, alternative to most nights of drinking, my mood maintained its positivity for the entirety of the night and the accustomed spiral of sadness was never forthcoming. It’s not a topic for here, but a worthy note to consider for myself and why I’d come here.

Marvelling at the knack for a large group of strangers to form such connections through the strong yet simple reasons of having common ground for why we’re here, what we enjoy and that we’re all different, I briefly listened to a girl make an ideally private conversation public in the common room; about how she hasn’t the money to renew her passport, that someone had eaten all her waffles and that she was planning to rent out her clothes matching the specific dress code for a Berlin Sex, Kink and Fetish club. The recipient of such information? Her Dad.

“Don’t tell Mum, she’ll kill me”.

German rock playlist found, I headed out and let the city do the talking. Still vibing the heavy, grey look of the place I felt quite comfortable and at home; my brown boots, faded jeans and dusty black French charity shop jacket open to a warm pullover seeming quite the fit. Starting at the MonsterKabinett (a must see) and its stunning studios and graffiti, I meandered on down to the Museum Island and selected the German History Museum. It’s minute depth expressed within tiny, spaced-out passages held me from the collapse of the Berlin Wall backwards until 1945 where I eventually couldn’t handle any more and headed back up to walk elsewhere. The plan quickly became to walk the west of the city today and complete the east tomorrow, an irony completely lost on me until Checkpoint Charlie when telling my own Dad my plans (the Sex Club not being one of them).

I checked off points of interest at a rate of knots; the Reichstag, Brandenburg Gate, Memorial to the Murdered Jews, Historical Location of the Fuhrerbunker, Checkpoint Charlie and the neighbouring panoramic experience of ‘THE WALL’ by artist Yadegar Asisi which I’d somehow missed in my quick Berlin research so classed as a chance find.

Reluctant to pay a ticket so late in the day I bared the walk home, stopping for a quick espresso in preparation for the likely nature of the evening.

Upon showering and resting for a while, I went downstairs with some of the people from last night for a drink. I wrote little of what happened until my eye was caught by a stunning Swedish girl sitting by herself, most notable for wearing dark eyeliner stark against the colour of her blue eyes. We chatted for some time individually and amongst others that conjugated to the table but in truth never really connected and I felt some way off full confidence. Indeed, while walking back to the hostel, I’d noticed a beautiful woman walking in the other direction. Our eyes meeting caught me off-guard, and I averted them following the briefest of moments. Quickly correcting myself and reconnecting to her resolute gaze, a small smile took hold as we passed ways. A bashful Scottish kid, not quite the assured individual look I’m going for. It made me chuckle to myself when reaching the end of the street, that such an attractive woman might look at me like that. It did however highlight (if I needed a reminder) of the emotional challenge I’d undertaken a very short time ago, that it will take some time to get a feel for my place in all of this and promisingly, that I felt okay with that.

So when a posse of others came over (all male, to no coincidence perhaps), I contently took my leave and settled to watch Boca play with Manuel and a new Turkish resident, Ugurcan, who would also become a friend. The chilled-out vibe to the night suited my emotional state and satisfied I’d remained mindful through a more volatile mood, I happily retired to bed.

Second Day

I woke up early to say a brief farewell to Alejandro but in no rush, I didn’t leave the hostel until around midday. I noted that with the flight to Venice tomorrow, I didn’t much fancy another late night and any serious drinking felt low down on my priority list. Today I hoped to cover the east side of the city including The Wall and the Stasi Museum however as always, it was left to instinct as to whether I’d make it to them all. Hint, I don’t.

Stubbornly, I continued my walking to every destination tactic and soon ran into an odd situation. Approached by a member of a charity providing for young girls forced into early marriage, I gave my full attention and time for what at first felt like a worthwhile conversation, until it came to the act of donating. Her manner changed quite considerably when pulling out the iPad, far more demanding and the complications of the donation drastically put me off despite the seriousness of the cause. My first desire of a one-off payment went against policy and the only option from there was to type in scores of personal details and banking information resulting in a pledge of a minimum of £10 a month (my £5/m offer was rejected with disappointment). Not afraid to say no I politely declined, handing her back the tablet saying that as I’m currently unsure of my financial situation following the aforementioned changes to my life, I don’t feel happy to commit to a monthly donation. I openly took out my phone to find them on Instagram and seeing a reputable charity, I followed and promised to start a donation once I find more stability. Her distaste palpable, she told me how the money I’d pledge via the website isn’t used for the kids and only by pledging here would my money go to any good use but with that she had totally lost me and, frowning at what seemed like an alarming thing for a charity to do, I left with a parting comment of my own disapproval and carried on my walk.

Using the river as a compass, I powered through the kilometres of a more industrial part of the city. The number of homeless made a considerable rise with plenty open sleeping on the streets and under bridges. I had no interactions, even when walking through a shelter of a dozen tents or so.

The café had an abundance of characters to people watch and being connected to a hotel, any number of different backgrounds were seen walking through or taking seats. It was here I considered the public approach of people here compared to other places I had been, how socially acceptable it seemed in Berlin to stare, without shyness or doubt or awkwardness. Admittedly at times it was quite unnerving and even a bit annoying when feeling eyes on me while I’m trying to read a book in peace but, rewinding to my travelling mindset, I had adapted and as time passed I found myself matching the intensity. Fast forward to when exiting the café and turning to close the door behind me I find no less than four of the seven pretty girls sitting at the table by the fridge, openly watching me leave?

There are definitely some positives to this quirk.

The Wall was fascinating and I walked the length (now in the dark) appreciating the meaning, reading the various information signs and artist names and I felt I finally understood just how recent this all was. In truth, I did find the Yadegar Assisi panorama more impactful but have since learned there are galleries in the area that might’ve changed my mind, then closed with the late hour. I grabbed a bottle of beer from a stall and walked back the way I’d came; facetiming my brother, talking with a friend over voice message, getting a delicious cheese and salami toastie from some handsome bearded man running a wooden shack restaurant and listening to more German rock in between it all. I aimed to catch a regional football game but along with everything else, I left it too late and rounding of a 15km day, I was back at the hostel.

Reading excerpts from my writing book now; “Can see myself dodging the chaos tonight” and “Not entirely unsocial, but not Ubers across the city to clubs” makes the following all the more amusing to me, especially as various mind-blanks cover up at exactly what part I decided to change my mind.

Enter: Basque people.

Three girls to be exact, with endless bundles of energy. I found them with Manuel, the conversation flowing in a torrent of Spanish, throwing denial on the general truth that Spaniards from the North speak slower than from the South. I’ve spent enough time with Andalusians to know it’s correct, just these three clearly didn’t receive that memo.  Listening was difficult but I could speak all I wanted to say, with interventions from all to help out whenever I needed translation. My experience in the North proved it’s worth, having walked through the hometowns of all three of them; Guernica, Amorebieta and Bilbao on el Camino del Norte (Amorebieta not technically on the route but I love the football team there and went for a visit, while inadvertently getting caught up in a Basque Independence rally) and so therefore having plenty common topics to discuss; Gatibu, the upcoming Atletico vs Athletic match, Pinchos and learning Spanish to name just a few.

Providing the tequila again, the night gained pace until after saying goodnight to the girls (one who left me her number asking to message when next in her area), a collection of us got in an Uber and headed for a club. Remember the Icelandic person with the firecracker personality? Yep, their idea, finding us all tickets for a setup that looked better described as an old WWII bunker. After initial refused entry by some arrogant skinhead I’d have loved to have given a proper slap to, we were in, stickers over phone cameras to prevent temptation to video the experience, navigating the cold stone corridors following the music, six of us in total: an Icelandic, Welsh, Australian, American, Scottish mix.

The admission now, I’ve never had much of a feel or liking for clubs. In my limited experience I’ve generally disliked the music, atmosphere and have probably had disappointing times in 80%-90% of the venues I’ve been to. At 18 I would often follow my friends into town from the villages, stay for 5-10 minutes and then find my own way home. However, with this one, I found value.

It was a sort of trance experience, the music never stopping and the beat steady, never breaking its rhythm despite subtle changes to the sounds around it. I remember a singer called Brad Jameston putting up a post discussing the ancient instinct of humans to vibrate, feel and dance to steady beat, originally to drums and now via other means but the notion being the same.

I think I understood it that night, swaying back and forth on a slightly raised platform at the back, very much enjoying myself. We’d roughly went our separate ways, although the Welsh girl stayed relatively close, dancing away. I’d gotten on really well with her earlier and made sure to keep her in eyesight as, although there seemed no threat, it’s a sensible thing for foreigners to do in a foreign place.

At about 5am, I called it a night and after telling Iceland and Wales I was leaving, I grabbed my jacket, resisted the urge to call the skinhead a wanker on passing and found an Uber. Pretty drunk, I had a slurred chat with the Turkish driver about his visits to Scotland, the wonder that is baclava and other surely important conversations. Hostel at last, I set my alarm for 4 hours in the future and crashed to the bed, feeling sympathy for my new Somali roommates at my probable lack of grace.

Leaving

Delicate but efficient, I packed up and made checkout time, said a few quick goodbyes to some people in the lounge room and got going. With some food and an espresso, I made notes of last night’s experience and how to get to the big cathedral as I hadn’t yet gone inside.

My first note was of the satisfaction of my own development, how through other exploration I can find links between the people I meet and my own experiences i.e. the links I could make with the Basque girls, my shared love of world football with Manuel and the Vasco de Gama fan. I felt proud of my Spanish too and that, even though I have a long way to go before I’m satisfied, I’m no longer the young traveller with only one language, I can join in and not be totally reliant on everyone else.

Secondly was my appreciation of the travelling mindset, how much it enhances the above and works hand in hand, along with generally how damn fun it is.

Thirdly, how I view goodbyes. I enjoy sharing contacts and keeping in touch, but I’ll only really chase that if either the person had a strong enough impact on my time or if a reason makes itself clear. Otherwise, I’m very comfortable of walking out and just appreciating the time we had.

Take Toby, for example. He was the Australian guy I was with the night before and one of my favourite people I’d meet on the entire 3-city break. He’s 6ft5”, an absolute adonis of a guy with incredible athleticism and physical appearance yet also so considered and intelligent, wonderfully open with his feelings and past experiences, conscious of all around him and asks good questions. All qualities I value so highly. Last I seen him he’d, unsurprisingly, hooked up with a girl in the club and barring a miracle, that’ll be the last time I’ll ever see him.

For me though, that’s no problem? I enjoyed talking to him, how we’d coincidentally always clean our teeth at the same time, and all the things I will have picked up from the experiences in his company. Now it’s done, I’m going to Venice now, and that’s that.

With all the moving around, goodbyes became a bit of a reoccurring thing across the whole trip that generated some frustration. They’re pointless when forced, with false promises of catching up again soon and keeping in touch, knowing full well it’s not something we ever intend on making a serious effort to do. If the universe intends on individuals to come together again then I’ll welcome it with open arms but grasping at the moment to keep it and the connection in place takes away from the experience and, as can be read, bugs me.

I much prefer the goodbyes of Alejandro, of the Amorebieta girl, of Aldric, my closest friend on the Camino. I have the formers number, we had a quick goodbye and handshake in the morning and then he was off for his bus, both aware we have contact details and if we’re in each other’s areas again, then great. The Amorebieta girl: she said she’s happy to show me around if I’m ever in the Basque Country again and if she has time, I said for sure if it works out and right enough, I plan to go to Santander, Bilbao and Vitoria in mid-April and will message her then. Aldric; I think I’ve had maybe 5 voice messages from the guy in nearly a year, and the two of us covered 1000km together (admittedly unawares we were keeping pace for a lot of it). He ignores most of what I send now, but who cares? I know if I see him again, which I believe in my heart I will, it’ll be like two brothers reuniting and we’ll have stories to catch up on, old memories to go over and new memories to form.

That is what I wrote about while delicately nursing my food, body feeling the combination of tequila and no sleep. It may seem a little extra, but I felt energy for the subject.

I visited the cathedral, with stunning views over the city and then made my way south to an old WWII airfield via the metro, now with a time limit and limited leg strength. I felt a bit downcast this morning, happy to be leaving and starting anew in a new place but truthfully, spent a lot of time thinking about my ex-partner. Travelling was one of our common interests, a common passion in fact and despite all of my happiness solo travelling, it felt unusual not to have her to share it with, even over a message.

Mindfulness helped bring me through to a lighter mood and upon reaching Berlin airport, my mind was back to the moment. Unfortunately, the moment was the most ridiculously expensive airport of my life, complete with 6€ a coffee and 4.70€ for a single bottle of Evian water. Despicable.

“Who Ordered it?” and “Where are They?”

Just a week earlier, I’d been reading of the infamous 2014 Ayotzinapa incident/atrocity in Mexico where a busload of student teachers in protest were forcibly stopped by Mexican authorities, in practically certain collusion with criminal groups, kidnapped and made to disappear. Dismembered body parts have been found in surrounding woodlands however the exact details remain unanswered by the authorities as to what happened to all involved, and families remain without closure, clarity or justice for their loved ones. Attempts from the Mexican government to distance themselves and feign innocence from the event quickly fell through and their knowledge of what happened became evident, but they refuse to collaborate and own up, leading to a still ongoing struggle from protestors and the aggrieved to uncover truths.

The event is a tragedy, and I don’t have the knowledge or the space here to do it justice but it deserves our attention, and Paul Theroux did a brilliant job to summarise the details of the situation and convey the emotion involved.

Concluding

I felt this mural could summarise Berlin (yes, we’ve reached the point where the writer tries to conclude their experience).

Find me a European city in the last 100 years or so that has had a more politically divided and turbulent development? Exactly, and this mural combined with everything else I’d seen gave proof as to what had been born out of it all; a politically conscious people that were prepared to educate themselves on both sides of the coin, to ensure political free speech for all, to not be afraid to stand up for what each believes and not be too cowardly to avoid the tough questions and brush the ugly under the carpet, even on issues almost 10,000km away. The instant experience of seeing Karl Marx Straβe (a name associated with a past Berliners could be excused of wanting to totally move on from), the Greenpeace container next to the Brandenburg Gate, various stickers decorating every street, the two protests present in my time there, the Murder of the Jews Memorial, lowkey recognition of the FuhrerBunker, preservation of the wall and inspiration for The Wall panorama, the marking of Checkpoint Charlie, mural for Ayotzinapa, the multi-cultural background of local Germans, fashion diversity, the number of different genders and peoples in the nightclub I went to.

The list could continue, but the key messages seemed clear to me:

• Preserving the past and using it to build better, while recognising the mistakes made to ensure they never happen again.
• Openness for all, in a society that may seem mismatched and chaotic but that with the idea of democracy, everyone can live peacefully together.
• To be open to expressive creativity and freedom, that control over liberty is not sustainable and that segregation and restriction will always be broken by the free will of people, no matter the time it takes.

It felt the right time to be leaving, an action packed two and a half days where I’d made huge emotional and personal steps in developing my new place in the world, while also generally enjoying free traverse once more.

A revelation from the Camino that travel is my truest form of living, the act where I feel most in touch with my true self and in closest connection to the path I’m carving out before me, it all still seemed to be the case and I felt a little relief that it felt the same way.

Therefore satisfied I boarded the plane, paid a lady’s crisps and hot chocolate for her daughter (cashless flight), got a smile and a large handful of cents in return and landed in Italy, without a clue what to expect but prepared nonetheless.