I’m D-ficient!

It seems that Estonia may not be somewhere I’ll eventually be able to settle down forever and ever.

This saddens me, because I really do love it here. I love the culture, the old streets and buildings, the restaurants, the cold weather, and the fact that you can get an excellent cup of coffee for about 35p as opposed to £3.50. This is a great place to live!

It’s dark nearly all the time now, which is also a plus for me. I do not enjoy bright sunshine and stifling heat. I like long, dark evenings, fluffy snow, crisp breezes and that sort of thing – odd creature that I am. It does not bother me in the slightest that we never really see daylight any more these days, and that the hours that aren’t filled with total darkness are rapidly becoming fewer. All that SAD stuff? Seasonal Affective Disorder? Nonsense! Just a load of whiners moaning about the weather.

Anyway, it’s not like I’ve been able to experience much of the weather, because I’ve been utterly exhausted of late, and getting the energy to go outside has been a rare occurrence. No obvious reason, and yet there never seems to be a point in the day at which I actually wake up. Sluggish and sleepy, that’s me. All day, every day. It’s kind of depressing, to be honest, and makes me feel sad on a regular basis.

It was suggested to me that I might have a Vitamin D deficiency, as this is something that leads to chronic fatigue, constant tiredness, and the general run-down feeling of having less energy than… good grief, I don’t even have the energy to come up with a witty comparison, there. Wearily, I went online and did a spot of googling on the subject of said vitamin. The suggested diagnosis seemed highly plausible, which was great, as clearly all I had to do was start taking Vitamin D supplements and I’d be full of beans again. Hurrah!

I cheered too early, because every article I read seemed determined to redirect me in my clicking, sending me to various pages about a certain well-known condition resulting from this apparently common vitamin deficiency. So, boys and girls, who knows what causes Vitamin D deficiency?

The answer we’re looking for is “lack of sunlight”. How amusing. Vitamin D is, of course, only produced when skin is exposed to the sun. This is obviously a little tricky when you haven’t glimpsed the sun for several weeks. So your body stops producing Vitamin D, your bones weaken, and you get rickets. Isn’t that nice? Or, more commonly, you manage to get a tiny amount of Vitamin D from things like fish and dairy products, and take the highest recommended “safe” dose of supplements, and you avoid rickets… you just suffer from SAD instead.

The irony is not lost on me. Girl who hates bright sunshine and hot weather, loves cold, dark days, and scoffs at sufferers of SAD, finds self suffering from same. I didn’t want it to be true, and so it was with increasing despondence that I read the list of symptoms:

  • fatigue
  • difficulty concentrating
  • weight gain
  • avoidance of social situations
  • body aches, often for no apparent reason
  • feeling excessively tired
  • feelings of hopelessness
  • increased, excessive sleep
  • loss of interest in activities that were once enjoyed
  • lack of energy

Woe and despair: I am allergic to my preferred weather type.

Relieved as I am to find that there’s a reason for all this, and I’m not simply going round the bend as previously feared, I’m also somewhat disconsolate to read that in order to get the required amount of Vitamin D to avoid this unhappy condition, you’d have to drink 40 glasses of milk per day. And that can’t be good for you. It seems that there’s no way to do it other than fooling your body into thinking it’s sunny – and for this, there exist many ludicrously-priced “light therapy” lamps. A bit of research around this has shown me that (a) half the population of Estonia has SAD, (b) as a result there are specialist light therapy shops all over the place, and (c) those crafty sods must be filthy rich.

Well, I’m off to stare at the little blinky light on the dishwasher. It brings me comfort and carefully measured happiness at regular two-second intervals.

Suffering for my art

You know that novel I’ve been writing?

Well, my protagonist is a bit of a hapless character to whom Things Just Happen. The blurb on the back cover would probably begin by listing all the things that go wrong for him despite his best efforts to lead a normal, peaceful life, and the list would end with “And then there’s his neighbour’s unsociable obsession with using power tools in the middle of the night…”. Ah, what fun I’ve had with poor old Will. I’ve wakened him every night with the sound of a drill or a chainsaw; I’ve had him using earplugs, trying to arrange his sleep schedule around his neighbour’s DIY hours, and simply screaming into a pillow; I’ve taken him round next door, red-eyed and weary, to negotiate with said neighbour. All of these things have had predictably humorous consequences, and I’ve taken some kind of sick pleasure in making the poor guy’s life a misery for my own amusement, building up an increasingly desperate picture to the point where the deafening noise begins as soon as he lays his head down on the pillow.

Ironically, I now find myself living in an apartment beneath what appears to be an overnight laundry service.

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! went the Loud Thing on the first night at about 10.30pm. Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! It sounded like there was a washing machine right above my head. It Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!ed for about 40 minutes, then changed to a more urgent and frantic sounding Wheeeeeeee! like a washing machine doing its final spinning thing, and continued for another 10 minutes before stopping so suddenly that the silence almost frightened me, as I thought I might have gone deaf. Ah well. Someone realised that they didn’t have clean clothes for work in the morning. It’s excusable once in a while, right? Unfortunately, half an hour later, the whole process was repeated. And for the entire night, in fact, 40 minutes of Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! followed by 10 minutes of Wheeeeeeee! continued to be broken up with teasing half hour intervals of silence. Regular as clockwork.

I cannot help but feel – in my slightly irrational, sleep-deprived and overly-emotional state – that it is punishment from the Universe for my treatment of Will. Payback, if you like, for my enjoyment of his distress. The landlord’s agents were informed after only two nights of sleeplessness, and to their credit they sent workmen to investigate yesterday morning, suggesting that it might be a fault in the ventilation system or something. Of course, the workmen arrived at 9am, which is when the apartment is generally bathed in blissful silence after a hard night’s Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!ing and Wheeeeeeee!ing. They probably think we are imagining things, or that the Loud Thing is simply a distant hum as opposed to an apartment-vibrating roar. And what more can we do? We don’t speak Estonian: our ability to insist that the problem be resolved is somewhat limited. And so every night at 10.30 comes the inevitable Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!, and we are faced once again with a challenge that is not unlike trying to get to sleep whilst curled up on top of a washing machine. Earplugs help to block it out slightly, but sleep is still not easy. And Riho, who steadfastly refuses to “put things in his ears”, is walking around with circles under his eyes that would put a panda to shame.

I am sorry for what I did to Will. Please make the Loud Thing stop.

Traveller’s Rest

It’s good to be back in Tallinn.

The absence of blog posts this week is an indication of how exhausted I’ve been – finally being able to lie down in a comfortable bed, cook healthy meals in a familiar kitchen, and lounge around in pyjamas all day reading and chatting and sleeping has been a real luxury. It’s also caused my body to groan “Finally!” and give up. Little things like blogging, working, and actually going outside have fallen (temporarily) by the wayside in favour of letting myself rest and recover from the most manic and unsettled few months of my entire life.

Monday was a longggggg day, with possibly the most bizarre flight I’ve ever had, even by Ryanair’s standards. The main problem was that the pilot really didn’t seem to be concentrating or – to be honest – to know how to fly a plane. Not that I’m judging, because I suspect that I wouldn’t have been able to fly it much better myself, but you tend to take these things for granted, don’t you? And for a start, he was convinced it was October. He kept telling us that it was. I’m pretty sure it’s September, but I don’t know what end of me is up any more, so I could be wrong. Anyway, after a very up and down sort of flight (I mean that very literally) during which my right ear had become more and more fuzzy (of hearing, I mean – i don’t mean to suggest that it suddenly sprouted a lot of hair or anything), he announced that we were coming in to land in Lithuania (it was Latvia, actually, but hey – they’re right next to each other), local time was 3pm (even though it was 2pm) and the weather was, once again, fairly typical late October sunshine. At this point I can only presume that he pressed a large button saying STOP, as opposed to performing any kind of complicated and expert landing procedure, for the plane didn’t so much “land” as simply fall out of the sky, end up on the runway (possibly by sheer happy accident), bounce a few times and skid to a halt in front of the terminal.

“Oooooh!” squeaked several women as we did the bouncing thing. Then they broke into spontaneous applause. I mean, WHAT? What the hell were they applauding? The fact that the plane didn’t technically go on fire or shatter into pieces? It’s not like it was the most graceful and delicate flight and landing anyone had ever experienced. Or maybe it was, and that’s a sign of the way things are in Latvia, I dunno.

Anyway. The day was greatly improved by the absolutely AMAZING bus from Riga to Tallinn – I was dreading 6 hours of bus, but this one had comfy seats, leg room, a coffee bar, WiFi, and a little TV screen with the politest bus host I have ever seen. He spoke in Latvian for about 10 minutes, then repeated his speech in Estonian, and just as he was kindly starting his English version I was thinking to myself “The only shame is that my battery’s going to go done in my laptop in about 2 hours – what would make this perfect would be if someone would invent a way of putting electric sockets on to buses!”. And little TV host man, so very politely, says “Internet access is free for your unlimited use, to while away the time or catch up with some emails, so if you want to power up, please do make use of the power sockets located between the seats”. Super-impressed, I was. And the toilet was not just a toilet, it was “a comfortable space for you to refresh yourself in privacy”, and the seats didn’t just recline to make you more comfortable, they allowed you to “curl up and doze off peacefully with the soothing sound of the road beneath you”.

I seriously love Estonia.

Withdrawal. Again. (Or “In which I kindly, with the patience of a saint, refrain from exploding and injuring all the imbeciles that seem to surround me”)

Hey Hayley! screams the irritatingly enthusiastic message from Facebook. Now you can throw a spaghetti cat at your friends!

Isn’t that marvellous?

I have been up since the early hours, on train after bus after train and all but strip-searched at the airport by a possible witch (with PMS). I have been shaken around inside one of those fluroescent tin cans that Ryanair call planes, with my knees somewhere near my ears and my right ear so severely popped that no amount of swallowing is prompting a return to a normal level of hearing. I have only vaguely recovered from my food poisoning incident, and so the ridiculously-priced sandwich I attempted to eat earlier is now lurching around quite dangerously in my stomach. I have in my hand a ticket from Riga Airport to Riga Coach Station to Tallinn Coach Station – only it appears that there is no bus to Riga Coach Station, despite the fact that I have paid for it, and so now I must find a bus into the city and do all the ridiculous Excuse me, do you speak English? nonsense again. And probably pay more money, too. There is also a small child running up and down the airport lounge screaming blue murder, and his parents appear to be deaf or just defeated.

I may also need to mention that I have not had a cigarette since approximately 10pm last night, and I want to kill the small child, its parents, Facebook’s Superpoke team, Eurolines bus company, hotdog vendors worldwide, Michael O’Leary, and the Swedish airport shuttle driver who tried to draw it to the attention of the entire bus when I accidentally tried to pay him in Slovakian money, not really seeing the difference in the notes. I will not, of course, kill any of these people, because underneath it all I am actually a really nice person. Not quite Julie Andrews, but perhaps at least a little bit Marge Simpson.

And then I log into Facebook and see a new notification. Ah, I think gratefully, a little note or message from someone who loves me, is thinking about me, or just wants to say hello! But no. It is a message that proudly explains my new ability to throw spaghetti cats at my friends, as if it is something I have been longing for, and indeed something that will genuinely improve my life. I am disgusted with everything in general. I have just purchased a vodka at the bar. I do not care that I can’t afford it. It is the only way I am going to survive.

And it tastes crap without a cigarette. As does the world.

I prefer trains.

An hour. A whole sodding hour I spent packing and repacking my bag before I left Vienna to catch my flight from Bratislava. I really don’t understand how I have exactly the same amount of stuff before every flight, and yet each time it seems to take up more and more space in my bag no matter how much squishing and squashing and rolling up I do.

Still, I got it all in (and, you see, part of the problem is that I can’t just be content with that if I’m to get it on as hand luggage – it needs not only to fit, but to fit with room to spare. Not bulging at the sides, as on the rather disastrous flight from Eindhoven to Stansted, which saw me removing items in a fluster whilst on the plane, being watched by a disapproving flight attendant and several middle-aged Cockney geezers who felt the need to tut at me, as I attempted to make the bag go into the overhead lockers). And then I put on all my extra jumpers, jackets etc. to go through security. Waddling along like a plump little barrel, I deposited my bag and outer jacket on the conveyor belt.

Sadly, it seems that the fatness of my face does not quite match the fatness of my body when I’m wearing 10 layers of clothing, and the Slovakian security woman, suspecting that my body was actually a long way beneath my clothes, indicated that I should remove more jackets. Sweating unpleasantly, I struggled out of a few more items and added them to the heap before going through to collect everything at the other side.

But no. Open, said the next security woman, indicating my bag. I groaned inwardly, realising what was about to happen. And yes – she went through all my stuff in a very half-hearted, disinterested manner, pulling all my tightly-crammed items of clothing loose, and then said OK. It’s not even like there was anything in there that shouldn’t have been (and once again I think of the Eindhoven incident, where I ended up flinging my shampoo etc. at someone and saying Take it! Keep it! Throw it away, I don’t care – I’m going to miss my flight!). She just fancied a nosey.

Fuming, I stared hopelessly at my bag, once so meticulously organised, now in a state of disarray. There was nothing for it but to try to cram everything in again. And now, as I sit at the gate waiting for my flight, I realise to my dismay that the bag is once again bulging at the sides, so I’ve another battle with an overhead locker to get through before I can relax for an hour.

I hate flying.

Where am I?

I’m suffering from a severe case of haven’t-got-a-clue-where-I-am-itis, which means that the first few minutes upon waking up in the morning are becoming increasingly confused and disorientated. It’s a new ailment to me, since for much of my life it was a safe bet that when I opened my eyes I would be in Ballymena, Northern Ireland. Things are a little less certain these days.

I’ve had to develop a routine upon waking: firstly, don’t just assume that you’re in the last place you remember being, as sometimes the mind simply can’t keep up. Take a moment. Let your brain wake up before you attempt any complicated memory feats.

Next, try to remember which country you’re in. This is an extremely helpful step, and makes the next one much simpler. Which city? Cast your mind back to the day before, and gather all appropriate information: train journeys, names of stations passed through, people spoken to… it’s all relevant. Once you’re reasonably confident of your approximate geographic location, you can try to get more specific.

Open your eyes and look around – do you recognise the room? Initially, the answer tends to be “Erm… no”, but don’t panic: generally you can  retrace your steps from the night before, and at least recall the last person you saw before going to sleep. This tends to help narrow things down (consider what language they spoke, what their accent was like, that sort of thing – grab any stray pieces of jigsaw that you can find).

In the past week, I have woken up in Holland, England, and Hungary, and now sit dazed and confused in Austria. Three mornings in a row found me in three different countries. From a loft room in Utrecht, to a pink bedroom in Cambridge (I have been sternly reprimanded for calling it “London”, but it was close enough. I got to meet up with yet another internet acquaintance, mainly because of the proximity of his house to the airport, and to sleep in a real bed. Hurrah!), to a hostel in Balaton.  Since then, I’ve slept on someone’s couch in Budapest, and am currently in some guy’s flat in Vienna, looking out at the rain with a feeling of utter exhaustion. I do not want to see any more nice buildings. I do not want to ask anyone else if they speak English. I do not want to visit another museum, or climb another hill, or try to figure out how, where and when to validate tram tickets in yet another city.

I don’t mean that I don’t ever want to do these things again, of course. Give me a few weeks to recharge the batteries and no doubt I’ll be wondering which country I can visit next. For now, though, I’m knackered. I have no energy left: only this afternoon I got stuck in a set of tram doors, which rather inconsiderately closed on me as I was trying, in my feeble state, to struggle up the steps with my bags. I do not know the German for Somebody help me, I am going to be killed when the tram takes off with me half in and half out of it!, but fortunately Arrrrghhhh! seems to be universally understood, and a guy on the tram leapt forward to open the doors and haul my bags in with one hand, and me with the other, as the tram went merrily on its way.

No more! I want to wake up in the same bed for several days in a row. I want to spend an entire day sitting in one place. I want to spend some time with someone who actually knows me, and have real conversations. And so, after the weekend, I’m heading back to the familiar surroundings of Tallinn and the comfortable company of Riho. Ah, Tallinn: where everything is cheap, people speak English, and my biggest problem is being unable to identify the ingredients for my speciality dishes in the supermarket.

Just need one final spurt of energy for a whirlwind tour of Vienna, a train ride to Slovakia, a flight to Sweden, sightseeing in Stockholm, a flight to Latvia and a six hour bus ride to Estonia, but sure that’s nothing…

Tired and Hungary

I was utterly unprepared for my trip to Hungary.

For a start, I completely failed to think about the fact that there might be a severe lack of English-speaking people here – probably not such a relevant issue if I’d been going to somewhere like Budapest (that’s still a few days away), but as it was, I flew into a little airport in the middle of nowhere, near Lake Balaton. The hostel’s website had apparently simple instructions for getting there – take the airport shuttle either directly there, or to a town called Keszthely. Since the airport wanted to charge me €40 (!!!) to go directly there, I chose the latter, “where there is regular public transport to the hostel”.

You can ask at that building for information, said the driver, pointing towards a desolate booth before leaving me standing at the dusty roadside, sweating profusedly. I trundled somewhat dubiously up to the booth. Excuse me, do you speak English? I gave the man my usual conversation opener. No, he said. We looked at each other for a moment. I was uncertain of how to proceed, given that the usual response to my question at such places is either “yes” or “not very much”, making it possible to proceed, however long the conversation might take with a few French/Dutch/Estonian words thrown in for good measure.

Erm… I battled on, showing him my scribbled hostel directions, train? Bus? I looked hopefully at him, and he shrugged. OK, I concluded with a weak smile. Thank you. He slammed shut the window, leaving me staring at the rather misleading “Information” sign.

I had an emergency cigarette under the ineffectual shade of a leafless tree, and located the train station. Nervously, I approached the woman behind the desk.  Excuse me, do you speak English? That’s going to be the name of my book, by the way.

No, she said.

Once again I waved my bit of paper, and once again I got a blank stare and a shrug. Defeated, I slunk off to a corner to open my laptop and check for WiFi availability. Of which there was, of course, none whatsoever. Seriously alarmed now, and picturing myself having to live forever at the side of this road in the arse end of nowhere, I used my phone to google the hostel, and found more specific directions. Trying to breathe deeply, I returned to the desk. Here? I asked, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.

She looked as relieved as I did when whatever was on the page made sense to her, and she wrote out the train changes for me, and sold me a ticket (for 900HF, which I believe is something like €4, as opposed to €40: ha!). Rather naively thinking my problems were over, I went out to the platform. Nothing was marked, and it was one of those train stations where, if you wait for a few hours and are lucky enough, you might just see a train.

It was 29°C, I’d been up since 6am, I was at a train station somewhere in Hungary with absolutely no idea where to go or how to get there, and nobody spoke any English. I’d actually like a huge big round of applause for the fact that I didn’t curl up in a corner and burst into tears. And that I managed three changes of train all by myself, each with at least an hour of a gap in between them and nothing to indicate that they were the right trains. I slept for a long, long time last night.

It was, however, worth all the trauma. Just you wait till you see where I’m staying…

Things that go creak/crash/snore in the night

Snore! Snore! Snore!

I stare sleeplessly at the bunk above my head. I have ended up in a hostel in Rotterdam, as you do on the average Thursday night, and it is a funky little place. Very basic, but not a mouse in sight, and I’ve had fun hanging out with cool traveller dudes from all over the world in the very studenty bar. Sleep, however, is proving to be something of a challenge in a dorm containing dozens of beds.

If it was just the snoring, it might be easier to get used to it, the way you can eventually adjust to the overly loud ticking of a clock that’s been keeping you awake. However, in this sort of environment, all sorts of factors come into play. Like people rolling in at regular intervals, just back from a night out.

Crash! Bang! Clatter!

Snore! Snore! Snore!

Then you’ve got the mattresses, which are plastic-covered things that squeak and creak and groan every time someone as much as twitches in her sleep. When the girl above me turns over, it sounds like the building is in the process of crashing down around my ears.

Creak! Squeak! Groan!

Crash! Bang! Clatter!

Snore! Snore! Snore!

I sigh softly to myself and cuddle closer to Eeyore, who seems unaffected by the Armageddonesque noise level in the room. I close my eyes and try to imagine I’m completely alone. I manage to enter a state that could be described as a light doze, but am disturbed by a man stealthily entering the girls only dorm – my bed is right beside the door, so I watch as he creeps past and appears to be inspecting the sleeping figures in the bunks. In my tired state, I can do no more than wonder what he’s doing, and then I forget about him until morning, when I awake to find the place in uproar. Everyone’s babbling about a man, an attack. There are police. They want to talk to anyone who saw anything suspicious, and I find myself being interviewed and identifying the shady-looking guy from the dorm. He is taken away, shouting that he is innocent, and a feeling of Atonement-like panic washes over me as self-doubt creeps in and accuses me of pointing the finger at the wrong person.

Creak! Squeak! Groan!

As the girl above me turns over again and the mattress resumes its earthquake impressions, I wake up with a jump and realise that that last bit was just one of those very “real” dreams. Dazed and confused, I continue my sleepless journey towards morning.

I am desperately in need of a good night’s sleep tonight, you know.

Head in the clouds

It would be quite a silly idea, if you were someone who had almost passed out whilst impulsively climbing the steps up some big hill in Lyon, to even consider taking on a much larger number of stairs less than a week later. No, you’d want to stay safely and contentedly on the ground, happy to look up, breathing regularly, sweating less dangerously, lungs still intact. That would be the sensible thing to do.

Still. You can’t go to Paris and not climb the Eiffel Tower, can you? The unfortunate thing about my apparent newfound enthusiasm for going up in the world is that I have chosen to do so in temperatures in excess of 30°C. This is unwise for a person who struggles with heat. A person like me, actually. It was so hot that they had huge fans spraying cold water all over the queues of waiting climbers at the bottom! Ascending stairs in the cold winter air is one thing – it can even help to warm you up, making it a beneficial exercise. But with the sun beating down on you and not a breeze to be felt on your burning skin? Probably wise to give it a miss.

So, up I went then.

And up, and up, and up…

I think I climbed quite close to the sun, as I was so hot by the time I reached the top that you could have barbequeued a couple of decent steaks on my face. Look, said my slim and agile couchsurfing hostess, looking cool and refreshed from her casual upward stroll, you can see Notre Dame over there! She pointed, and I tried to blink away the spots that were dancing merrily in front of my eyes. Oh yes, I gasped, clutching the railing with one hand and making a futile attempt to dry my forehead with the other, there it is!

Of all the traditional View of Paris from the Eiffel Tower photos that I took, impressive as that view was, my favourite shot is this one. Tiny little dots of people, safely on the ground, in full control of their breathing and with non-trembling legs. And that’s only from the first floor. The Eiffel Tower is Very Big. That’s my official travel writer’s description of the must-see landmark. Very Big. I should be getting paid a fortune for insights like these, you know.

One night in Berlin

I can’t say I was terribly taken with Berlin. Of course, I’m willing to acknowledge my extreme tiredness by the time I arrived there, coupled with my distress about the laptop death, and it’s perfectly plausible that I am just associating Berlin with these feelings now. Also, I didn’t actually see much other than, erm, the airport. However, I did think that the people I encountered were a little… abrupt. They weren’t exactly rude, but I didn’t feel very welcome, as a foreigner - the opposite of how I’ve felt in Estonia and France. 

In Estonia, most people speak English to some extent, and are happy to do so. In France, fewer people speak English, but they appreciate you making the effort to speak their language, and are very pleasant, patient and helpful as you stumble around in your faded memories of auxiliary verbs and the imperfect tense. Conversations take much longer, and can be quite embarrassing, but all my exchanges thus far have been friendly and punctuated with jokes and smiles. In Germany, I felt a bit stupid and snubbed every time I tried to ask for help or directions. Sad and weary, I finally retreated to a quiet corner of the airport and sat down to read my book.

An elderly gentleman approached with his luggage, indicating the space beside me and asking something in German. I nodded politely, indicating that the seat was free, and he sat down, arranging at his feet two battered leather bags and, quite inexplicably, a tightly sealed crate of bananas. I continued to read. The man fidgeted for quite a while, and then said something else, clearly hoping to have a conversation. This was impossible, because of my tiredness and the fact that I didn’t have a clue what he was saying. Ich spreche kein deutsch I said haltingly, shaking my head with an apologetic smile. He rolled his eyes and gave an annoyed grunt, muttering something under his breath. I chose to ignore this, and continued to read.

Eventually, he got up and just sort of shuffled off out of sight, leaving his luggage behind. I eyed the crate of bananas somewhat suspiciously, and decided to take advantage of his absence to move to a free bench at the other side of the lounge, where, exhausted, I curled up underneath my coat and tried to get some sleep.

I woke up to find myself staring at a gun.

This was a little unexpected. I blinked several times as I emerged from my doze, and let my eyes travel upwards to take in the uniform and face of the gun-wearer: an airport policeman who had apparently been told that I was seen talking to the Possible Terrorist who had abandoned his banana crate/box of explosives. Good grief. More than a little nervous, I explained my non-involvement, feeling the disapproval in his voice and expression, and hoping that he wasn’t going to arrest me. He looked at me with what I can only describe as a sneer, and nodded tersely before turning and walking away to deal with the bananas. Sleep was impossible from then on.

And that was Berlin. It was… an experience.

I note from my blog stats that I have some readers in Germany. I wish to make it clear that I have nothing against Germans – especially the ones who read my blog! Please don’t hate me. I’m simply reporting an experience. For all I know, they thought I was the rude one…

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