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.
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.
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.
