Time Out Of Mind

Perception of time, and how it passes, is strictly a cultural thing. Ryszard Kapuściński wrote that the Africans, traditionally, don't really believe in time. Buses leave when they're full, village meetings start when everybody's there. A little further north, Lawrence Durrell noted that peasants in the Greek Islands judged distances in terms of how many cigarettes they would need to smoke before they got there, while for Orwell's Spaniards everything is going to be done mañana.

My recent acquisition of a functioning bicycle and an i-Pod, however, has led me to a newer and rather more satisfying way of measuring time. I noticed when I cycled from home to the Due Forni pizzeria in Prenzlauer Berg that it took exactly three Bob Dylan songs, two from his Time Out of Mind record and one from Blonde On Blonde. Likewise, the distance from my front door to the dentist's surgery in Weissensee is precisely three of De La Soul's greatest hits, plus half of track from the Oscar Peterson Trio's Night Train.

Part of the attractiion of this manner of time-keeping is that it is fluid, ever-changing. It depends which tune you play off the record, as they are all of differing lengths (at least according to the old system, which we've just done away with).

But perhaps the best argument for this method can be found in the fear of death. When you look closer at most of the fundamental things in life, they ultimately boil down to the desire for some form of immortality. And by replacing linear time with music, we may just be on to something. After all, everybody knows that our days are numbered, but record collections are strictly alphabetised.

And it's taken me three of Bob Dylan's lifetimes to write my Russia blog, but it's on its way.

At the Russian Embassy.

I was warned about this place before I arrived. Expect chaos, expect difficulties. Be assertive, walk straight through the crowds and don't take any crap. This sort of behaviour is so out of character for me, a human bundle of indecisiveness and awkward politeness, that I almost had to create an alter-ego in order to get into the correct state of mind.

Pushing my way to the front of a small group of Russians, I waited for the little door to open. After about five minutes a sleepy, Mediterranean-looking guard emerged and surveyed us all with an extreme lack of interest. People began calling and waving Russian passports. Trying to point out that I only needed a tourist visa and should be in a different queue, I held my British passport aloft and felt a twinge of colonial embarrassment as I did so. 'Let me through, old boy. It's alright, I'm British!'

The door was closing again so I forced myself through it and the guard looked at me with surprise. I told him in German that I need a visa and he nodded patronisingly to humour me. I may as well have told him that my name was Betsy and I'd come to marry his shoes. 'Kein Problem, kein Problem', he muttered in a thick Russian accent as he pushed the poor deluded would-be tourist back outside. I took my place again in the midst of the impatient mob, and again we waved each time he came out as though he were a celebrity.

Finally I managed to shove my passport into his hand. He glanced at it apathetically and slipped it into his pocket, before disappearing back into the cool, dark recesses of the Embassy. Around twenty minutes later he opened the door and ushered me in. I walked through the metal detector and every ounce of my clothing triggered the alarm. Metal badges, steel boots, copper coins, keys, phone. He seemed unfased by the potential terrorist threat I represented and pointed vaguely over his shoulder in the direction of the corridor.

When I got to the top of the staircase I was greeted by a sort of apocalyptic version of the Post Office. A tall guard in a green uniform was sitting behind a table and gave me two tickets to take to counter no. 2. I walked past chaotic scenes, shouting Russians, confused Germans and fighting children. Upon reaching counter no. 2 I milled around near the window, unsure of exactly what I was to do next. Somebody in the queue noticed me loitering and explained I needed to give the man at the counter one of my tickets and wait to be called.

From watching the people whose numbers had come up I worked out that I needed to take a visa form and then get some photos taken at the extortionate 6 Euro photo booth. Since the booth only had instructions in Russian, the guard came over and actually helped me to work it. I was stunned by this peculiar outbreak of assistance in a place which seemed deliberately and skilfully constructed to confound all attempts to get anywhere even near to Russia. The first photograph was bad. It lingered flickering on the display screen.

'You happy with that one?' he asked, uncertainly.

'Uhm, I think so.' I said, politely.

'Take another one.'

A computerised Russian voice counted down and there was another flash. I tried to smile for the camera but it came out as more of a leer. The guard gazed in horror at the screen. Greasy hair, unwashed in two days and sticking all over the place, as well as a bizarre smile which made me look like a rather apologetic serial killer. Certainly not the sort of person you would want to let into your country.

'No,' he snapped. 'Another.'

The third photograph was shabby but passable. At least it allowed me a fighting chance of getting a visa. I walked back to the queue and started filling in the application form. One question was difficult to understand so I called Olya to ask her opinion. The guard, who had been perfectly friendly until a moment ago, marched up to me.

'Sprechen Verboten!' he barked in a perfect imitation of World War II German film clichés.

Eventually my number 230 was called and a small bearded man processed my forms with something between complete indifference and active hostility. He gave me a bill to pay at the counter, 50 euros more than I was expecting, and told me to bring the receipt back to him.

After waiting in another queue to pay, I forced my way back through the crowd. Two ladies who had managed to get in after a one hour wait at the entrance door lottery had just been told that they were too late and would have to come back again. I shoved the slip of paper through the little gap under the window, where you had to hold it with your thumb to prevent the air conditioning behind the screen blowing it straight back at you.

The man grudgingly accepted it and I skipped through the madness and the shouting out into the silent staircase. An old German guy who had also come for a visa and seemed friendly enough was sitting on a chair in the corridor, apparently waiting for something to happen.

'Is there anything else that needs to be done once we've paid?' I asked, since quizzing the people who were ahead of you in the queue seemed to be the only way of finding out what was going on in there.

'How should I know?' he spat, startling me with a hostile grimace, like a hobbit turned evil by the ring in his pocket.

I shrugged and jogged down the remaining stairs. The sleepy security guard was leaning by the metal detector and I was surprised to find him smiling at me.

'Well, all sorted?' he asked, cheerfully.

I nodded and wished him a nice day. It was all over, I'd gotten out alive and emerged triumphant from the Embassy's anarchy and moodswings.

'See you next Tuesday' I said as I left.

Do not adjust your city.

The older I get, the more I fall into the pattern of comfortable little rituals. Every time I arrive back in England, pulling up at Liverpool Street on the train from Stansted, I invariably stop at the station off-license to buy an overpriced, chemical-ridden can of Carling. Once I'm firmly planted on the Piccadilly line train to South Ealing I open it and bathe in the dirty looks from fellow passengers. A quiet welcome back into the city which spawned me, and a tribute to my late teenage years shuttling in and out of Central London on the same train in search of something bigger than the suburbs.

Returning to Berlin this time, landing in my city on a Tuesday night after Davey Hunchback's wedding over in the UK, I found that a new habit has crept into my life. Three seconds after coming through the gate I automatically picked up a football paper to check the scores I'd missed from the weekend. Armed with the latest edition of Cometbus courtesy of a visit to Punker Bunker in Brighton, however, I stuck the paper in my jacket for later and climbed onto the waiting train to continue reading Aaron's reviews of New York's bookshops.

The S9 from Schönefeld starts in the south-eastern wilderness, the allotment gardens and sad neighbourhoods left half-empty by the post-communist cultural and economic vacuum. Slowly, as you pass from Schöneweide into Baumschulenweg, Berlin begins to reveal itself as the amounts of people, light and noise gradually increase. A metropolitan strip show, drawn-out and clumsy as we rattle our way into the heart of the city.

But I was only partially watching. The longer you live somewhere the less you dwell on every detail. "Dull would he be of soul who could pass by a sight so touching in its majesty," William Wordsworth wrote about Westminster Bridge in 1802, and those words have been ringing in my ears for years as a warning never to take anything for granted. But my attention was fixed on the copy of Cometbus and my brain was in another city, across the Atlantic. And suddenly it all went black.

The book disappeared and so did my fellow passengers as the train surged forward in the void. All I could see were the lights of the city from which we'd just been erased, hanging outside the window from invisible strings. Then some awkward flickering and we were back, like a momentary glitch in a TV broadcast. Disappointing to return to ourselves so soon, but my heart was still pounding. And then we dropped out again, back into anonymity. All conversation in the carriage died with the light as we fell into a stunned silence. The sound of the wheels smacking against the tracks was the only reminder of who, or where, we were.

Amazing how a simple lapse of electricity can change everything, flick a single switch and the city becomes bigger. Every familiar perspective was distorted beyond recognition as the night spilled over into the carriages and drowned us in darkness.

Then the lights came back on for good, but not before the city had managed to strip away another layer of our complacency. Another ritual shaken, and a swift kick up the arse for the dull of soul.

Odd Numbers

'I know what love can do', sing The Techniques as I walk down the dark forest path. The sound of raindrops falling on the brim of my hat is mixing with the ska music on my headphones and I ask myself for the tenth time whether I'm doing the right thing.

I am on my way to an extremely meaningless football match. Tennis Borussia (fourth division) vs. Hilalspor (sixth division) in the last-sixteen of the Berlin Pilsener Cup. The result is something of a foregone conclusion but, even if the impossible did happen and Hilalspor won the game, nobody would care much anyway.

Several computer-printed signs attached to wet fences point me in the direction of Julius-Hirsch Sport Complex, where the reserve team usually plays. Due to low demand, however, it's not worth the trouble of opening up the stadium for the 100 or so bedraggled, half-interested punters who make the journey out to this far-flung corner of West Berlin on a Tuesday night.

An old man is standing beside a table with a small money tin. Next to him a fat guy in a Lonsdale sweater is providing the 'muscle' in case anyone tries to sneak in without paying the 4 Euro charge. The man cannot count, and every single transaction is drawn out as he stares at the money with exaggerated concentration, getting it wrong every time.

Finally I'm in, and not a moment too soon. The game has just kicked off so I buy a beer in a plastic cup and take up a prime position on the touchline amidst a small group of purple-clad student types. Within 6 minutes it is 1-0 to Tennis Borussia, an appalling backpass which is punished by a crisp, concise finish from 30 yards out. The crowd doesn't even cheer. Rather, they emit a kind of collective sigh. Yes, their team is going to win. Yes, it's that easy. No, it wasn't worth coming.

The rain keeps falling and so do the goals. 2-0. I buy another drink and the man at the beer stand tries to give me 18 Euros change for a 10 Euro note. Returning to my place, I find the crowd discussing the fact that the new Tennis Borussia striker, Danny Kukulies, has a tattoo of their rival team, BFC Dynamo.

"We should collect some money from everyone," the loudest chap announces to nobody in particular. "Pay to get it covered up."

The third goal slides in and the Hilalspor goalkeeper can't even be bothered to dive. It's followed promptly by a fourth, absurdly off-side goal. A few moments later the newcomer Kukulies yells at the referee, angered by a decison. "Get rid of your Dynamo tattoo first," shouts my neighbour. His words echo around the field and Kukulies looks slightly annoyed.

As the referee blows the whistle for half-time the players trudge back down the forest path to the dressing room. Some of them greet members of the tiny crowd and politely decline offers of sausages and coffee. A middle-aged man hovers by the bratwurst stand barking statistics into a mobile phone. People mill around amiably enough and I lean on the fence, watching the proceedings with interest. A strange mix of pensioners, twenty-somethings and middle-aged couples seem to have braved the weather for all this. But why?

The second half starts and it is getting colder by the minute. I pull out my red Brentford gloves, emblazoned with 'BFC' in huge white lettering across the back. Up until now I'd kept them in my pockets to avoid running the risk of being mistaken for a BFC Dynamo fan. The fifth goal goes in and the sky opens, freezing raindrops pouring onto us from up in the void above the forest. I pull my hood up.

By the time it becomes 6-0 it is pretty fair to say that the game has been decided. The aggressive, competetive element of the game is fading and the tackles are becoming less violent. A more relaxed atmosphere now reigns on the pitch as the opposing players slap one another on the back and share jokes with the referee, who for his part has taken on more of a role of resident comedian by this point.

7-0. Final whistle and an half-hearted chant of 'Come with us to the final' breaks out amongst the younger section of the crowd. The teams leave the pitch a little too quickly and a younger Tennis Borussia player yells out to his colleagues, "Hey! Help me pack up!".

We all shuffle back into the darkness, players and managers and supporters and beer sellers. It's not quite the glamour of the Bundesliga but there's something to it. Whatever it was that drew me out here on a rainy tuesday night to watch a couple of teams battle it out on artificial grass in the name of the most beautiful game on earth.

I know what love can do...

Thanksgiving.

Going anywhere Jewish in Berlin these days is like travelling to a foreign country. First you have to walk past the policeman at the door, then you're greeted by the airport metal detector. Even the kids who came to the Channukah market at the Jewish museum in December were forced to undergo rigorous security checks before they were allowed to get near to the sweets and toys.

This familiar sight greeted us as we arrived at the Jewish Community Centre. From the outside the place is bizarre; the ornate gateway of an old, ruined synagogue attached to an ugly 1960's building. The old and the new, married uncomfortably together like so many other places in this city.

I got through security after a slightly drawn-out check and made my way up to the restaurant where I was going to wait for a couple of hours while Olya took her Yiddish class. Two women, mother and daughter, were hunched over cake. A few chaps wearing skullcaps and beards were drinking Becks Gold and speaking Russian in low tones. I took a seat next to the whitewashed wall and ordered my drink, took out my book and got comfortable. It occurred to me then that The Fall by Albert Camus was maybe not the best book to read in such religious surroundings, but nobody seemed to notice or care.

No one really sat still in this place. They milled around, visited each other's tables, inspected the buffet, without ever allowing themselves the time to settle. The oldest man there, a splendidly-bearded gentleman aged around 65, would wander between the rooms at regular intervals. Each time he passed through a doorway he would kiss his hand and press his fingers lightly against the wall. Whenever he stood up I would watch him repeat the practice out of the corner of my eye. It seemed to be an extremely spiritual gesture, although I had no idea at all what could be so moving about a doorframe.

In between reading Camus' stories of gambling, prosititutes and atheism I began to feel extremely tired. The glare of the lights hitting the yellowed pages of the old Penguin paperback and the soft murmurings of the voices around me lulled me into a strange trance. Every minute or so I would notice that I was falling asleep and have to sit up, straighten my back and focus on the words again.

The only answer was caffeine, but it was not so straightforward. Whenever the waiter got within two tables' distance of me his gaze would automatically drift elsewhere and he would increase his speed. Often he would take a seat to chat with the mother and daughter eating cake in the corner, or converse with the beer drinkers. I could have called him over or approached him, but it seemed as though that would have been inappropriate behaviour. It was a cafe, but it wasn't a cafe. He was a waiter and he wasn't a waiter. I was there, but I wasn't there.

Having resigned myself to no more coffee, I waited it out until Olya arrived at quarter to ten. I left my little table and managed, with a great sense of achievement, not only to procure my bill from the waiter but also to pay it.

We descended the staircase, back towards the security checkpoint and out onto the cold street. I told her about the old guy's peculiar method of entering and leaving rooms and she didn't seem surprised. "I think you're supposed to thank God for everything, no matter how small," she said.

There's something great about this idea. Showing gratitude for forgettable things, even the simple act of passing from one room to another, seems to me like a wonderful habit. God or no God, a little humility would do us all a bit of good in the end.

We headed toward to Zoologischer Garten station and I looked back at the ugly concrete building one last time in the glow of the West Berlin lights. Of course, I forgot to say thank you.

Kreuzberg Hotel Debacle

Nobody told me exactly what I needed to do, just that I should be outside the abandoned hotel at 3pm. Let some people in with this key. Don't lose the key. They'll know the rest, they're professionals.

So I took the train over the river and suddenly there I was, standing outside a beautiful 19th Century building in Kreuzberg, nonchalantly jangling the keys to a property that's worth 1.5 million Euros. It was no ordinary Friday.

They arrived one by one, a mix of New Yorkers and Germans, and they were disturbingly young. Around my age, probably. It felt as though I was peering through the looking glass. On the surface they were the same as me, but there was one big difference: these reflections which stared back at me were organised, driven human beings. Goal-oriented. Shrewd. Money people.

And suddenly they were asking me questions.

"Is the facade protected?"

"How many rooms are occupied?"

Earnest faces peered in at me from the other side, the commercial Wonderland. I had two options. Do I lie, pretending to be professional and risk being exposed as a fake when my answers prove to be complete bullshit? Or do I admit to being completely clueless, an unfortunate individual trapped through complicated circumstances in this rather awkward situation?

"I just have the keys," I shrugged, apologetically.

They realised that they were dealing with a complete amateur and left me alone after that. All I had to do was fulfil my duty; that is, I turned the key in the padlock and opened the place up for them.

"What makes a house grand," sang Tom Waits, "it ain't the roof or the door. If there's love in a house, it's a palace for sure." Beautiful words, and very true. Unfortunately, however, love is no longer considered a solid investment. In order to decide whether or not this was a palace these guys had brought a team of surveyors, architects and structural engineers with them and walked around tapping everything.

I realised that I was no longer of use and wandered off to explore. The place was five storeys high and had been left in a complete mess. Mushrooms bloomed from empty wine bottles littering the floor. Mattresses had been torn out, windows smashed and one of the toilets now had what appeared to be a tree growing out of it. Amidst the ruins I found a West German newspaper from 1984, giant metal candlestick holders and framed paintings. I was fighting an extremely strong urge to steal everything that wasn't nailed down.

My new friends seemed less impressed. They walked around knocking the walls and muttering to each other. It was a little strange that none of them seemed enthusiastic about this giant, sleeping beast of a building. A ghost hotel with an old-fashioned mirrored bar, rusting balconies and rotting treasures. A real-life haunted house.

A torn copy of the Bible lay on the floor of a trashed bedroom. The cover had been ripped off, revealing one of those inadvertently funny contents pages telling you where to turn for guidance in every situation under the sun, from the loss of a family member to an unpleasant winter cold.

But unfortunately for me there was no page which advises you on what to do if you are in a 15,000 square metre wasteland, hiding from investors and feeling a strange mix of sadness, excitement, emptiness and adventure.

So I just climbed up to the top of the haunted house and looked down on Kreuzberg, sat up there with the rain clouds, broken furniture and shattered dreams. For the investors it may have been a bit of a waste of time, but I can think of worse ways to spend a Friday afternoon.

London.

Sitting here in Berlin this evening, wired on coffee in a strange local café surrounded by the lights and concrete of my adopted city, it's easy to feel a million miles away from London. The pubs aren't going to close anytime soon, the transport runs like clockwork and the beer is reasonably cheap. All of the components for a normal European Saturday night are in place.

But having recently returned for a 2-week visit to the UK with Olya, I am forced to concede that I probably have a lot more connection to the place than I would usually care to admit. Maybe it's when standing on the terraces at Brentford, very vocally accusing the referee, a man I have never met, of being a 'wanker' just because he makes a few bad decisions. Could be how much I like the way that complete strangers will call you 'mate' (or, indeed, 'wanker'). Or just the faint shiver that goes down my spine as we stand outside the skeleton of the old Intrepid Fox pub where I (mis-)spent many evenings growing up and which is now being converted into luxury flats. Either way, the older I get the more I realise that you can't escape your hometown just by leaving it.

Olya and I kept a bit of a record of this trip (300 or so photos constituting 'a bit') like true tourists. Hopefully the strange mish-mash of experiences collected here will form some kind of comprehensible whole.

Probably not, but then that's cities for you.













Tate Modern.

By the Thames.

Sammie and Ema seeing in 2008 at the Crown.

Londoners

My dear departed Intrepid Fox (Soho) becoming luxury flats.

Hey Suburbia. South Ealing, all wired up.

Spade-umbrella.

Cafe.

Me, Judy and Sammie on the terraces at Brentford.

Onfield. Brentford 3 Chester City 0.












Me and Sebby.

2008 looks this good.