One night in Berlin.

On Friday, June 21, I undertook a quest: I was to go to Berlin for one night, and return the next morning. To understand my motivation, there are but a few details that need disclosing. At the beginning of the week, once I had adjusted from getting back from Munich, I began to wonder how on earth I was going use up all the days on my Eurail Pass. Everyone else was traveling outside of Germany again, some going to Paris, some back to Amsterdam, and two to Switzerland. I had no desire to repeat the weekend of Freiburg that I spent talking to myself and quietly going mad from the quiet. Yet I couldn't stay in Mannheim, or else forfeit days off my rail pass. Therefore, after some careful thought and planning, I decided I would go to Berlin. The release of the last Harry Potter book was on Friday- and what a lark it would be to be at the largest bookstore in Berlin when it came out. However, there was one catch: I didn't want to spend the night. I was sick and tired of paying too much for hostels and frantically trying to compile a blog post and do homework and avoid the urge to watch "Red vs. Blue" on Youtube on the Monday afterwards. Seemed much more practical to do all of that on Sunday instead. It also seemed that there was no great difficulty in the arrangement- the book was released at one in the morning, synchronized with London time, yet the next available train back to Mannheim left at 5:33 a.m. This may have been a slight oversight in planning as far as my physical and mental health was concerned, but I figured I would burn that bridge when I crossed it. I still had to find the shoes.

That's another thing: Jp's cleats. My dear mother asked me to check for some if I got the chance, and as luck would have it, there was an Adidas store not far from Dussmann, so I jotted down some rough directions from the Google maps application into my Moleskine before I left, feeling like the Wicked Witch of the West, off on a hunt for a prized pair of slippers. Or in this case cleats. This automatically brought a strange image of Elphaba playing mid-right sweeper, blasting opponents out of the way, and I burst into laughter. The old woman knitting across from me in the bus wrinkled her nose vaguely in disgust. Slightly mollified but still giggling, I got off and boarded the IC for Berlin.

There is not much I have to say about the train ride there, as I cannot now remember much of it, it feels so long ago. The journey from Mannheim to Berlin lasts five hours, and the way is, to steal a line from Twain, "profusely decorated with tunnels." I spent much of the time reading or listening to my iPod, folded up as I was in a window seat. My joints were stiff after not much movement in five hours, but it was good that I had had the chance to rest somewhat. I was going to need all the strength I could muster.

It took a minute to orient myself after disembarking the train, but after 20 minutes, I was on the right street and the quest was begun! It would've begun sooner, but I had wasted fifteen minutes wandering around in the cavernous Berlin Hauptbahnhof looking for an ATM. After a thorough and maddeningly frustrating search, I became convinced that there were none whatsoever, and murmuring dark thoughts about Deutsche Bahn administrators who posted misleading signs with the intent of gathering around television screens and making bets on which group of hapless tourists would give up and break down into a frothing rage first. And so I walked out into the day, gazing up upon the wind-swept sky, my first moments in Berlin. I decided to commemorate the occasion by taking pictures like a tourist with an itchy trigger finger gone mad.

So, following the notes I had scribbled, I meandered down the various streets of Berlin, pausing to mark my progress by taking photos of the street signs I passed and interesting looking coffee shops. I had a suspicion that I would need copious amounts of caffeine before the end of this ordeal. Eventually, after no wrong turns whatsoever, I arrived at the adidas store. After looking around briefly, I deduced that the object of my pursuits was not located here: the place was merely a rundown stand with miscellaneous merchandise strewn about the place like beads at a bazaar. Consulting my map, I continued my journey, navigating toward the conspicuous television tower at the end of Unter den Linden, Berlin's most famous street. It runs from East to West, from the Brandenburg Gate to the former Imperial Palace. It was easy enough to find Dussmann's Kultur-Kaufhaus, after stopping for a brief dinner at an Italian bistro near the town hall. (And, just for Joe, who was bugging me about the most insipid details of my trip, I ate a linguine pasta topped off with cilantro with salmon grilled over cedar wood and a frothing Berliner pils, which was quite scrumptious, seeing as I had skipped of a real lunch)

Now for the details concerning Dussmann's. The closest thing I can compare it to is a Borders, only more so. Every major department store in Germany is marked by the distinction of having several different levels- Dussmann has four, plus a basement devoted solely to classical music. They sell books, cds, dvds, as is to be expected, but so much more, from board games to a small corner shop that specializes in writing materials. Basically, excluding food and drink, Dussmann's has everything. Looking back, I think it was a major mistake to arrive six hours before the book release. I wasn't sure I could handle the temptation. So, to alleviate it, I grabbed a Calvin and Hobbes and sat in a corner armchair trying to decipher the German humour.

Later, following my surrender and consequent purchase of Twelfth Night in German and a deck of Casino Royale playing cards, I was feeling a bit groggy, so I set off in the direction of a Coke, returning after caffeine and ice cream. I spent much of the evening sitting in Dussmann's, refreshing my memory by rereading the last few chapters of Half-Blood Prince. But soon the hour approached.

That's when things got interesting.

At the end of the main avenue in Dussmann's, where people had begun to line up by around 10:30, there was a wide antechamber with a bar and chairs, where they would later be releasing the book. Instead of letting the gaudily dressed mob into it, they kept us out by roping it off. My favorite costumes were a trio of men I dubbed "The Deathwatch" in my Facebook photo album. I will not mention the names, seeing as they were somehow right about every single death that occurred in the book, which seems highly improbable without previous knowledge. Look only at your own risk. At first I believed it was for the benefit of the radio and television crews on the other side, then I began to suspect that it was out of malice that they denied us entrance. Then I realized the real purpose: the Germans didn't want to get in. They love standing in line, gaining a feeling of importance and satisfaction every time they manage to shove past someone else. Every few minutes a Dussmann employee would brave their way past the barricade into the crowd with a tray of drinks: water and their impression of butterbeer, which I suspect they gave the crowd in efforts to curb the aggression of some of the rowdier spirits. It tasted like apple juice mixed with rancid sunflower oil and fermented washer fluid. I stood to the side with a crazy Israeli and commented upon the situation. He agreed. I cannot remember how to spell his name, only that I couldn't pronounce it. He made for interesting conversation during the wait though. Yet the hour was soon nigh.

It came three minutes before I had expected. As the crowd began to chant down in German, I quickly stowed everything except my voucher into my small rucksack, and allowed myself to be swept into the swirling mass. Due to several physical advantages: my height, commanding visage, and skillful implementation of the elbows, I was able to plunge in, retrieve my prize, and exit quite swiftly, but it was a struggle nonetheless. The one thing every good German loves besides beer and bread is a lively brouhaha, and this was no exception. I shouldered my way out of the crowd, proudly singing a forgotten tune, for my quest was concluded. Now for the journey back. The night was not over yet.

I returned to the now-quiet Hauptbahnhof posthaste. The S5 from Friedrichstrasse left me on the lower levels, lonely now in the darkness and silence. The only place still brightened by lights was McDonald's, and I tramped in, collapsing after purchasing food. I was ravenous, not having eaten for seven or eight hours, and also exhausted, having been awake for the past 17 hours, so I was not going to sneer upon fast food. Not that there is any cause to: McDonald's is far superior in Germany anyway, despite my companion's constant retching and complaining whenever I suggest it. I would've gladly stayed there for the next three and a half hours, but they were tired as well, and it was closing time. I took up a position on a bench and recommenced reading where I had left off, already on chapter 3. The next hours passed slowly. I would read, and when reading tired me, I would fiddle with my deck of cards, playing countless games of solitaire as I tried to keep my eyes open.

It took about an hour of fruitless attempts before I realized I was missing the nine of diamonds and the three of hearts. I was joined in the silence by various other travelers, backpackers, gentlemen of fortune, and wanderers who were collapsed around the station. Migration patterns developed eventually, forced by the cleaning crews mounted on miniature Zamboni washing the floor, humming quietly. But then... morning came, and I boarded the train. The InterCity as it came out of the predawn fog was one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen. With relief in my heart, I read. Sleep could wait until I had a proper bed.

I tried to think back to the events of the previous day, yet everything seemed so far away. I decided to concentrate on it later. By the time of my return, I had been awake for the past 25 hours. I vaguely thought that I needed shampoo, and then fell asleep for six hours straight.