Now in cold, wet and windy Edinburgh, balmy Berlin seems like a distant summer holiday.

We stayed at cool and busy Circus Hostel right at Rosenthaler Platz and wandered the nearby streets after arriving on an early train. Good thing number one about Berlin: they start late. Even for Saturday breakfast.

The wandering went on for days so maybe I should break this up a little (I’ve got a time limit on the hostel computer!).

Places…
Kreuzberg in the south, supposedly grungy but actually quite cool. Prenzlauer Berg in the north, used to be grungy but now so cool it’s fashionable. Alexanderplatz in the centre, but without being the city centre. Mitte, a large central area is beyond being described in a few words. Friedrichshain in the east has the impressively grand yet boring Karl Marx Ave. It also has a lot of punk record stores and one cute organic and soy gelato shop. Charlottenburg, in the west was once the ritzy part of town and it still is beautiful. We stepped back in time and had a tour of Pip and Carston’s amazing apartment – closest to a grand Rose Bay apartment but with more history and European-ness, and probably for less rent than a house in Newtown. Grr. Can you see why people are relocating to Berlin?

Museums…
As the Lonely Planet said, Berlin has more museums than rainy days and it was true. The Checkpoint Charlie museum was the absolute low-point of the museum trail because it was so amateur. Walls were plastered with images, text in different languages and different sized fonts and no organisation to the stories being told. There were some great stories in amongst it but it was such an effort to make any sense of it.

Far more impressive were the panels surrounding the actual site of Checkpoint Charlie. Full of all the info you need about the history leading up to and after the Berlin Wall and best of all, consise, well-organised and free.

The DDR museum was small, fun and interactive. You could sit in an old East German car or watch old docos about people living in Eastern housing.

The Jewish Museum was an amazing building designed by some amazing architect who I might just name if I have time left at the end of the post. It led you chronologically through beautiful displays and peaceful surrounds. There were perhaps a few too many words and too many stories but that might just be reflecting my short attention span.

The Pergamon Museum was the highlight. It’s exhibition on Babylon was quite perfect – lots of old stuff with the history downstairs and then the stories, myths and contemporary explorations of Babylon upstairs. The museum has also recreated a giant Babylonian archway – beautiful blue tiles with mythical creatures in relief tiles. I picked up the free audio tour here and was actually impressed… never thought much of taking audio tours in the past, especially at museums where there’s already so many words, but this was a nice exhibition to drift around with something to listen to. Oh and why was a museum in Berlin holding an exhibition about Babylon? To put it bluntly, some German guy was right into digging up the ruins years ago.

Food…
Berlin was the destination where we lost interest in Eastern European food. Good place for it really. Monsieur Vuong’s on Alte Schönhauser Strasse was a hip Vietnamese restaurant just down the road from us near Hackescher Markt.

In Charlottenburg some locals took us out for Chinese on a street they think is this close to becoming Berlin’s Chinatown (although I’m not so sure those lights strung across every Chinatown in the world would look right on this massive boulevard). Afterwards we went to a local cafe where they serve a special Austrian dessert called Kaiserschmarrn. It’s kinda a pancake cooked liked scrambled eggs and served a bit soft, traditionally eaten whilst skiing or camping or something. Much tastier than it sounds.

But of course it wouldn’t be a German holiday unless there was some sausage involved. That brings me to…

Football (or soccer) and cool places to hang out…
The Eurocup final was on while we were in Berlin. Football is kinda a big deal there and so it was a really big deal this time because Germany was in the final against Spain. Peter’s friend Pip (from Charlottenburg if you were reading above) told us we’d be meeting some others at a beer garden. I should point out that Berlin beer gardens aren’t the half-arsed attempt you see in Australia. No, a table outside of a pub does not constitute a beer garden. I walked past a number of places which seemed like a vacant grassy lot with tables, umbrellas and beer but this particular place was even more interesting.

Mädcheninternat possibly used to be a girls’ school, or maybe it didn’t but they just thought it’d be a cool name for a bar. The only way we really knew we were in the right place from the street was that there were hundreds of bikes chained up on the surrounding block. We climbed the overgrown front path and walked around the side of the giant stone building to discover a crowd of people, many on yellow deckchairs, around a big screen. We continued onto the overflow area of the bitumen where there was another big screen and a smaller sea of people constructing their own seating. We went on our own little scavenger hunt through leftover building materials to see what sort of seating we could build. It’s amazing how resourceful you can be with some wood off-cuts (mind the rusty nails) and some giant polystyrene blocks.

What started off looking full of too cool people with their minimal techo (Germans love their minimal techno) turned out being balanced out with families and little kids by the time the game started. And the sausage reference? We hadn’t eaten and German sausages were the only thing on offer here. I should also mention that beer was even served in glasses here. Imagine that! Oh to live in a place not wrapped up in the red tape of public liability. It could be worse, I could live in the UK where anything remotely edible seems to have a peanut warning on it.

Shops…
I really must have done a lot of aimless wandering in Berlin because I certainly didn’t do much shopping. A few good ones worth pointing out though:

Monia Herbst – beautiful leather bags just around the corner from our hostel and made in the back of the shop. I’m one shiny red bag richer for it.

Ausberlin – near Alexanderplatz this shop has interesting non-souvenir items from Berlin. Clothing, books, music, accessories etc. We went here on our first day and if I’d gone back later I would’ve been sure to buy something.

Mauerpark Markets – flea markets that are mostly full of people selling their rubbish but also with a few cool t-shirt designers. One t-shirt and two hair clips richer from this little adventure.

Getting from Budapest to Krakow wasn’t as easy as we thought it’d be. The old-school flickering board announcing all the train departures and arrivals listed trains which should’ve already left. We were told not to worry (I guess this happens all the time in such cities?) so we stood around with some other Aussies heading to Krakow and eventually the board flickered over to our train sometime after it should’ve left. I should mention we were told not to worry by a random travel agent guy we hit up for information. The official information section was like the RTA – take a number and after we serve 20 people before you and after your train has left we’ll get to you. We went to the platform and were told the train was going to Moscow so then asked for a second opinion and eventually made it to the right carriage.

I woke up around 6am when the train should’ve been getting close to Krakow but we were stopped at a station called Bonhomie. Kinda weird to wake up with no idea of what country you’re in. I still don’t know what country it was but it would’ve been one of the ones between Hungary and Poland.

By 12.30 we arrived in Krakow only 6 hours late. The cool Polish chick at the hostel (Greg & Tom – highly recommended) sat us down to tell us how it is in her firm yet perfect English starting with: “Six hours late? I feel sorry for you.”

Getting there took so long that there’s only time to summarise what we did there….

Pierogi (cabbage & mushroom were best). Schnitzel. Duck. Tour buses. American tourists. Giant Westfield like shopping centre across the road from our hostel. Park surrounding the old town. Reading in the park. Castle. River. Churches. Contemporary Polish Photography. Cheesey traditional music live at restaurants. Yes, I mean piano accordian. Pope John Paul II tour (no, we didn’t do that). Cheap gelato. Jewish quarter. Trams. Produce markets with berries. Bikes.

But it’s Europe, so of course there were heaps of tourists.

There were also monuments and museums galore so I won’t mention them all. The National Gallery in the old Castle had some great 20th century paintings by unfamiliar Hungarian artists, but it was the only gallery we made it into. Luckily on the first evening a relative of Peter’s gave us a personalised drive-by tour of the sites of Budapest. Funnily enough she’s an academic in Australian Studies in Budapest and speaks with a perfectly neutral accent when speaking English.

On another evening we went north to meet another relative for dinner. He gave us an excellent post-dinner tour of an area that was a combination of 70s communist apartments, beautiful turn of the century buildings and Roman ruins discovered when constructing highway flyovers. Now that’s diversity.

Did I mention it was hot? Mid-30s is too hot to be walking around any city let alone one that is very concrete on one half (the Buda half is hilly, green and mostly residential the Pest half is flatter, more concrete and the ‘CBD’). On the first day we went to Margaret Island – a huge car free island in the middle of the Danube. On the island is Palatinus Baths, a rather impressive water park with every type of pool imaginable – wave pool, waterslides, fountains, massage jets, lap pools and on and on. Quite fun. Of course, no Hungarian attraction is complete without the ability to buy beer, sausages, and deep fried bread (Langos) with sour cream.

On our last afternoon we did the final relative visiting, this time with a feisty 96 year old great aunt I’d heard a lot about. Her apartment not far back from the Danube was covered with books and paintings. As well as Hungarian she speaks English, German, French and Russian – she mentioned that being able to read Dostoevsky’s work in it’s original language was inspiration for her learning Russian. Good thing that after a week in Paris I was already comfortable with my inability to speak anything other than English.

I should also mention that all above occasions involved lots of food – have more biscuits, have more beer, do take a bigger piece of foie gras (ew), etc etc.

And oh how I wished for those extra biscuits when we were delayed for 6 hours on our overnight train to Krakow. But that’s another story.

After exiting the Louvre late in the evening a few police on rollerblades sped past. Yes, police on rollerblades. If only I’d been quick enough to get a photo. I soon realised they would be heading to the massive Friday night cityskate that happens in Paris. I didn’t have my rollerblades with me so we headed to a French-ish restaurant on Rue de Berger across from the park which surrounds St Eustace church.

Another day brings another Sydney friend who has relocated to Paris. Oli moved over to play with the band Nouvelle Vague amongst other things. He explained the intricacies of French social security as we ate pizza from a Saturday market at the end of our street. Yes, he’s thoroughly enjoying the French lifestyle in case you were wondering.

Saturday evening was our last in Paris and it also happened to be Fete de la Musique. Hundreds and hundreds of bands play for free in the streets and cafes of Paris all night. Fifty metres from our place in one direction was hardcore doof music outside of a Thai restaurant, and fifty metres in the other direction that was drowned out by a rock band, and then further down the street was some traditional music. It’d never happen in Sydney without being interupted by laminated signs, public service ads in the paper, security staff, noise complaints etc etc.

We were heading out to the 20th to see some US folky bands at La Fleche d’Or. It’s a way cool grungey venue that was probably once a train station. You can sit in the back eating and looking down through broken windows onto the end of an abandoned train line with kids picnicing on it. I passed on the 7 euro mojito but damn those Parisiens do a good Rose.

At 6am on Sunday morning we were on our way to the airport for our flight to Budapest and the Fete de la Musique crowds were still heading home.

So after these observations I’ve decided you really need to be born here and brought up here to successfully pull all of this off. But it’s nice to drop in on the vibe for a week.

Yesterday we walked from our apartment in the Marais across the Seine to St Germain. Wandered through the famous Shakespeare & Co bookshop and then the less famous The Village Voice bookshop. Somewhere in between was a Camper store I managed to avoid buying something at. We took a Metro further out of town, found there was nothing there but saw the Eiffel Tower in the distance so walked towards it and finally under it.

A billboard ad told us there was a Bridget Riley exhibition on at the Musee d’Arts Moderne so we found it next, stopping outside at a fresh food market to get a small bag of fantastic olives.

Later in the afternoon we headed north on the bustling narrow footpaths in search of a record store. Luckily for me we found Maureen along the way and I’m now one green felt bag richer.

The evening brought with it a trip to Pigalle for a free gig by a Icelandic post-rock band at Divan du Monde. We then met up with Nick, a Sydney friend who has moved to Paris, and he took us to a grungy bar by a canal a couple of metro stops away in the 10th.

And thus my journey begins its end.

I greet the useless hotel desk guy at 6 in the morning to check out. I want a detailed list of phone calls I’ve made for the good of my insurance claim to come, but it’s beyond him. Damn these public holiday staff. My airport transfer arrives and not only does he not have credit card facilities as promised by the ad, but he also doesn’t have any change! He promises to square up the bill next time I’m in Paris. Grrr.

And then I go about standing in the change-your-ticket queue at the BA desk for half an hour. What a joy that is when there’s a 25kg bag dependent on you. Anyway, I somehow end up on the plane without any further dramas and I even managed to only be as sick as the number of tissues I had.

Not too much later I touch down in Heathrow and right after finding Justine I head to Boots to stock up on cold and flu tablets. The guy warns me that the night time ones are very strong and not to take them during the day. I agree, chuckle to myself and then get one into me as soon as I’ve left the shop. I had some time to kill and so bought a phonecard to call Peter. For once the phonecard doesn’t expire in 27 seconds so I decide to give my parents a call. It didn’t work and it wasn’t til later that I realised it was because I was doing something stupid like leaving out the area code. And this was only the beginning of the torturous journey!

By the time Justine and I are on the next plane I realise that I can’t hear much out of one ear at all. Nevermind, I say to myself, it’ll fix itself up when I land. I can hardly stomach the airline food so I happily zonk out for most of it. Then it was time for landing. Boy could I feel it. Can I advise you to never, ever, ever get on a plane with an ear you can’t hear from? Ouch.

Did I mention we were headed for Toyko? At first I was excited by this proposition because we had 12 hours to kill there, but we landed and worked out that it would take most of that time to get from the airport to the city and back. I felt like I was in another universe. My ear made me feel like I was underwater and I was finding it really difficult to hear any of those little softly spoken Japenese women. We couldn’t even work out how to get out of the airport!

But we did….

Main points.

After banging my head on a table for six hours at Dublin airport waiting for my plane to arrive, I wasn’t in the best of moods. I certainly wasn’t looking forward to getting from the airport to my hotel at midnight with 25kgs on me.

I powerwalked off the plane in Paris with the suits and their briefcases into the stale smokiness of the airport. The only people left in the airport were cleaners. I found my way to a bus (it was the only one there so I got on it), and then to a train. Now to buy a ticket. How do I buy a ticket? Everyone else seemed to have one already and I didn’t see a machine around. I somehow communicated to a guy who looked like he worked there that I needed to get to Arts et Metiers and wanted to get a ticket. I thought he was being typically French and ignoring me when he left the booth and walked over to the ticket gates. He proceeded to look through used tickets and eventually handed me one saying in broken English that it’d take me to Arts et Metiers and pointed me to the platform saying “last one five minutes!” He even told me where to change. Who said the French weren’t nice! And THEN as I’m powerwalking along one of those huge travellators at the even huger Châtelet–Les Halles station a woman in front of me asks where I’m going and points in the direction of where I need to be (even though I already knew) and points at her watch until I work out that she means to hurry because the last train is near. And she gets even sweeter when we get off the travellator and mimes at me to be careful with my bag.

First night in Paris findings: Parisians don’t live up to the stereotype.

The next couple of days pass just how you’d expect them to in Paris. Walking, shopping, museums and galleries. It sounds like stuff you’d do in any city, but doing it in Paris is somehow different. Walking along beautiful tree lined streets in sunshine that I’d hardly seen on my trip; stopping to look in patisserie windows where chocolate and cream and fruit fought for a position; crossing the river just to see what’s there (quite a bit; you should try it sometime).

OK, so food played a major role in my visit to this city too. I made sure I ticked most things off my French checklist. Crepe – done. Croque monsieur – done. Quiche – done. Red wine – done.

On our first (proper) evening in Paris we were fooled by the map that we contained in our hands and decided to walk to the Champs Elysee via the Louvre. Paris is really huge. I keep forgetting. Is it just me? Those maps should come with warnings. Walking around is lovely, but walking for an hour without feeling that you’re getting anywhere can be a bit much.

We got the the Louvre an hour before it closed (which meant I got in for free). I’ve come to like the racing-through-a-gallery experience an hour before it closes. I don’t feel guilty for not pondering every work and I can walk around without anyone being in my way. Even the Mona Lisa didn’t have much of a crowd, not that I paused for her. I went straight to the big room. Boy were those paintings big. One of my absolute favourite paintings was there in all it’s glory – The Raft of Medusa by Theodore Gericault.

After the lights were turned out at the Louvre and the doors shut behind us we wandered up the Champs Elysees. We got hungry and then annoyed for being hungry on the most expensive strip in Paris where the standard of food is the equivalent of George St in Sydney (well, maybe not quite that bad).

Sephora is one of the greatest shops in Paris. At least that’s what I thought when I was there seven years earlier. These days you’re elbow to elbow with American tourists and the shop assistants just wear t-shirts instead of the finely tailored floor length black coats they once did.

Justine and I parted company at this point so I could go to The House of Live, just around the corner on Rue de la Boetie, to see Sydney band Monsieur Camembert. They’d already started when I arrived so I stood up the back only slightly conscious of being alone and maybe looking like a tourist. Great gig and only somewhat strange to be seeing an Australian French gypsy band in Paris.

It was the night before Bastille Day (traditionally the Fireman’s Ball night) so there were a fair few firemen around. Needless to say, a girl on her own doesn’t last long without being approached in Paris and so this night was no exception. They were lovely boys and we spoke in broken English for a while, but when they enquired if I knew what a French kiss was I decided it was time to run for that last train.

But I missed the last train. The stereotypical French attitude came out when I needed a ticket moments before the last train came. So I heard the train come and go, all the while the attendant pretended he never saw me. So my last 8 euros went on a cab.

Bastille day was a gorgeous sunny day where Justine and I lapped up the sun while watching the military planes do their trips overhead and guys in cute uniforms rode overly ornate horses. Justine had to run off to catch a plane so she could get her luggage from London, but I wasn’t to leave until early the next morning.

I took the opportunity to go to Musee D’Orsay late enough for it to be half price, but with just enough time to see enough of everything. This gallery is spectacular. It has all the loftiness of a a huge train station and the light flows in wonderfully through the clear-ish roof. I bought some postcards of my favourite works, but I’ll have to post them here some other time.

With the gallery closed but still lots of sunlight and energy on the streets of Paris, I decided to do more aimless wandering. I wandered quite far along the Left Bank (is that right?) through St Germain (stopping for fantastic gelato) and then eventually crossed the river at the point where there’s a little island in the middle. Can’t remember it’s name, but I should consult a map and then note it here. I hopelessly tried to cover as many little alleys as I could on my walk back to the hotel. Sadly I didn’t discover anything exciting.

By this point I was over French food and mourning the fact that I was no longer stopping in Singapore (so could no longer have the roast duck I’d been looking forward to). I managed to find a Thai restaurant and despite the French menu, I was able to order easily enough because both me and the waiter knew the names of the dishes in Thai. Funny that. So I had Tom Kha Gai back at my hotel room and packed up my things for an early start the next day.