Day 3 – Berlin
‘You could get kicked out of the country for doing that.’
That was the turning point. That’s when last night started going decidedly awry.
We met two American guys at The Hoff Shrine bar, bloody hilarious pair they were – partly because they were drinking beer out of a ginormous glass boot.
Naturally we got involved. And soon the hammer train was but rapidly banging away.
Sang Usher again. Fuck. This is becoming a habit. ‘This is embarrassing,’ one guy said, pouring beer over his mate’s head as I was singing about fucking in a club.
Needless to say, one chirps up that they were hiring a car to drive on the autobahn.
‘Get an Audi. ‘
They both agree and say, ‘Yeah an Audi, let’s do it, a good German car!’
Then. Oh Christ.
‘….yeah I drive one.’
(What?)
‘…Yeah it’s a red A3, with a sunroof, 2.0 litre turbo. Drives like the wind.’
I blame the beer in the boot ENTIRELY.
The next day we woke up, went about our business, went and sat outside for a beer and the two come back whooping with a bottle of champagne.
Where do I know them from? Ah. Yes. The bar last night. What happened again? The last I recall was a gangantuan glass boot filled with beer.
‘So we did the autobahn, thanks for suggesting your car, we hired one! Wow man, that thing went at like 250km/hour at one point, amazing!’
It all came back to me – the giant fabrication I’d told when I thought I’d never see them again, basically conveying that my dream car was really my reality.
Dove got it straight away. She cocked her head, and I changed the subject.
‘Yeah…so, how was the weather out there on the um, highway?
He popped the cork and it bounced off a tram.
Cue Dove’s aforementioned ‘You could get kicked out of the country for doing that.’
‘Dude. I think I told them last night I drive a red Audi.’
‘No fucking kidding mate.’
We drank champagne with them and then I told the one about these silent discos people apparently go to – where you rock out with your iPod to the likes of Phil Collins (fuck yes!), or whatever. We asked the locals, the receptionist, everyone. No one knew.
We reckon it’s a conspiracy. They’re so underground, cool, you need to just KNOW. Or maybe as was suggested, maybe they just happen irregularly and not at a specific club.
Peas: That dude. He knows something.
Dude: Check out his face. Lying. For sure.
Peas: We’d have to wear Goth if we found one.
Dude: Goth?...I haven’t unpacked that suitcase yet.
Hank what do you wanna do tonight, 1) Go to a pub, 2) Go to a club, 3) Go for a drink, 4) Sing to me in the bedroom?
Dove and I have got good at being very honest with each other, now that we’re travelling.
‘Check it out, they hired ‘my’ car.’
Dove: You’re a fucking jerkoff.
Peas: Screw you you fucken wankperson.
Then five seconds later we’re talking chav to each other and laughing until our stomachs hurt. ‘You’re WELL talented mate. Just for walking around in those purple shoes. That's well tidy.’
Our minds are like sponges at the moment. Absorbing at full capacity, Berlin almost saturates you, as they is just SO much. It’s exhilarating and heavy-going at the same time.
Dove also thinks my new laugh, the Anthony Hopkins in Silence Of The Lambs, is as bad as the Jack Nicholson in The Shining. I beg to differ.
We did the Wall Walk. Basically you walk on the wall. Sometimes you’re walking on two cobblestones that run throughout the city signifying where it lay, or otherwise come across chunks of wall that are still standing.
Fascinating. Some chunks run through buildings and bridges. Tunnels can be seen where people tried to escape. Much of the existing wall has been chipped away by people for souvenirs.
(Which cost a fucken packet, might I add. My piece, half the size of a plate, cost me about R400. I know I know, silly me.)
Also went on a fuck off interesting tour. Which took us all around the main sites. Including where Michael Jackson dangled his baby over the railings of Hotel Adlon next to the Brandenburg Gate.
Oh and Checkpoint Charlie is fake. They’ve rebuilt it on the exact site with obligatory guards dressed in uniform just for tourists. Tacky or genius?
