Thursday, July 30, 2009

Stage Eight - Berlin Complete

Greetings team!

It has been awhile - I have been a busy girl.

Firstly, I have been investigating this strange German landscape under the guise of being a tour guide. In this way, I get to learn all about the country and its history without arousing suspicion, and manage to simultaneously convince tourists to part with their hard-earned recession-defying cash. Mwah ha ha. Brilliant.

This plan is also inspired because it allows me to indulge my middle-child syndrome desire for love, attention and affection EVERY DAY! 40 people per day listen to me talk and think I am clever. Sometimes they even think I am witty. Occasionally they think I am charming. It is pretty much the job I was born for. For those of you who thought the hardships of traveling might bring my ego under control, WRONG. It has only accelerated it to near catastrophic proportions.

The other genius of this plan is that being a tour guide can, on occasion, be scarily lucrative. I have learnt four tours now, so am working almost every day, and I love it! And, not only am I making money, BUT there has been another development that has occurred as a result of tour guiding. An unprecedented, life changing development. I have managed to achieve a dream which I thought would always evade me. I had given up on this dream ever becoming a reality for me, but for some reason known only to the Heavens, this dream has been bequeathed to me and my years of dreaming and hoping have become a reality. My life has changed dramatically as a result, and I feel as though nothing can stop me in my quest for eternal greatness. Ladies and gentlemen…

I have a tan.

Hold. The. Phone. Shut. The. Front. Door. Back. The. Truck. Up. And other sentences that involve orders to perform actions with inanimate objects. A tan! A TAN! Like one of those things where the melanin in your skin makes it go brown in the sun. Followers, I had for many years believed I HAD no melanin. After the sunbed incident of 2001 where the sunbed company told me I was allergic to UV light, and therefore effectively sunlight, and had a wee chuckle at my expense, I have been cowering from the sun like Posh Spice from calories. So can you IMAGINE my delight when one day, while out for a run, I was about an hour in (that’s right, I run more than an hour. Impressed much? I’m a healthy leader, like Obama) and suddenly realized I had forgotten sunscreen. Panic set it. I returned home half an hour later expecting blisters, scarring and a trip to the hospital. What I had in place was TAN LINES. TAN. LINES. Well let me tell you, I almost passed out. Since this momentous, life-changing day I have been tan-tastic. Seriously, you should see the tan lines on my feet. They are actually embarrassing, but I am leaving them there to serve as a reminder of the unhealthy, see-through colour I once was. Someone even asked me the other day if my tan was real. For the first time in my life I was able to answer without a response that involved the words “Dove Summer Glow Moisturiser.” Unprecedented.

So, on that note, I have moved to the top of the world conquering agenda, getting some of this “oh-zone lay-er” pulled over New Zealand. Guys, we need to crack onto this. The joys of it are unbelievable. I still advocate sunscreen (there will be numerous ads about this in the first few years of the reign, and they will be much more intense than the current Slip, Slop, Slap and Wrap campaign. Think that creepy guy with the wheel of fortune wheel in the look twice at intersection ads meets that sunscreen prawn who gets cooked on the barbeque. Holding a flamethrower and a Molotov cocktail. Ouch), but if you do forget sunscreen it’s not going to result in instant death like it presently does at home in Kiwiland. Even if I have to pick the country up and physically move it, we are getting our hands on one of these Ozone Layer things.

So despite the fact that I am leading tours about Hitler’s reign and concentration camps, life is pretty happy here in Berlin. I did actually cry in my tour the other day when talking about a particular group of Jewish men sent to a concentration camp, but I don’t think any of my tourists noticed, so phew. But as I already said, I love tour guiding and the rest of life here in Berlin is outstanding too. After the cry-fest that was my return from London, I found my new flat which I have just moved into. It is beautiful - one of my friends actually said it was the nicest one she has seen in Berlin. I’ll claim that - it is seriously gorgeous and in an amazing area. My flatmates are amazing too (even more so considering the clutches of the previous, creepy, alcoholic flatmate I escaped before I got to them). I have made some amazing new friends here in Berlin, who are all wonderful and have all been effectively PR-ed into making a visit to New Zealand (Mum, I have offered out the beach house for most of 2010. I hope that’s okay? Haha). I work a few nights a week in a bar too, with some exceptionally cool people, so I am pretty well stoked about that.

There is only one source of angst left in my life in Berlin, and that is the relentless accent hassling that I am subjected to daily. Such blatant insolence cannot be tolerated. For years people thought I was American or Australian (those accents being so similar of course). Now apparently, my New Zealand-ness is more obvious. The guys at tour guiding and the guys at the bar think this is HILARIOUS and relentlessly spend all day coming up with new ways to make me say words they think are funny. For example, Twig at the bar:
“Hey Stiff [I know, hilarious. Whatevs Twig], if I bought a Bicks [Becks] and a Carlsberg, how much would that cost me?”
Stephanie, sighs. “Six euros Twig.”
Twig, sniggering. “Haha. Sux.”
Or, “Hey Stiff, can you get that thing from downstairs? You know, that thing that you put drinks in and it keeps them cold? Not an Esky but a…”
Stephanie, again, sighs. “A chilly bin Twig?’
Twig, again sniggering. “Haha. Chully bun.”

To be honest, most of the other people I meet still think I am from somewhere else, but every now and then an astute Kiwi or Australian picks it up. Actually, funny story about those hideous children I taught for five and a half seconds; at least I managed to use my accent to mess up their English quests a little bit.
Stephanie: “Also Leute, was heisst Schlafzimmer auf Englisch?” (Okay people, what do you call a bedroom in English?)
Children, in unision. “Bidroom!”
Haha. Oops. Meh. Care factor zero.

Another downer on the Berlin dream is the marathon. I had a bit of a bad run where an old netball injury flared up and I couldn’t walk for a few days - not ideal when your profession is a walking tour guide. Then, a weird lump started growing where the injury took place. Scarily bone feeling. I decided this probably wasn’t a great sign, especially since every time I ran it got worse. So, I have cut the running right back, and will be employing Shoe Science upon my return to hook me up with some good shoes (and ACC if they fail) and will run the AKL marathon next year. Anyone want to join me? I’ll give you a small island if you do. Maybe the South Island, haha.

But, MUCH to look forward to in the next few months. Firstly, the impending arrival of Dave. YAY! Dave! Dave will be sharing the Berlin dream for one month from mid-August. Look, I’m going to be honest. It’s pretty clear to me that he has recognized my rise to glory and knows it’s only a matter of time. He has decided to get in early so as to be there from the beginning and negotiate a position of power. An astute plan, and although I’m not blind to his transparent aims, and will of course be carefully watching him lest he attempts to stage a coup, at this stage loyalty is fiercely rewarded. In this case, in the form of a couch and some free tours for a month. If any of the rest of you want to use a similar plan, all applicants for visitors to the Berlin lair will be considered.

As my current deputy, Dave and I have made some plans to investigate other nearby regions under the guise of a happily married newlywed couple on our honeymoon. He will go under the pseudonym Richie Cunningham and I will be his wife Oprah. Prague, Sweden and Denmark are on our to-conquer, I mean, to-do lists, as well as possible reconnaissance missions to Russia, Austria and Switzerland. For those of you unable to help with the expansion here in Europe, soon to be renamed “Stephanie and Dave’s Happy Fun Land”, remember, dwellings under the Ozone Layer will be given to those who start to make the necessary preparations at home for my triumphant return just prior to Christmas.

Time to work on this masterpiece I am creating - yes, the book dream is progressing slowly, but will be getting back on the fast-track now that I have finished studying for tours/ Berlin domination.

Much love followers,
Stephanie

P.S. For those of you who were wondering, Ben Harper on my birthday was AWESOME! Seriously, off the richter. He got moved to a tiny venue at the last minute so I got to see him from about a metre away. He got sweaty in his white shirt and all his Maori tattoos were visible. It was deeply moving.

P.P.S. Pearl Jam in two weeks - hurrah! I’ll send an update after.

P.P.P.S. Britney Spears was here on Sunday. I almost went except the tickets were 150 Euros! Not freaking likely Britney. If you’re that short on cash then shave your hair off again and sell it.

P.P.P.P.S. For those of you who are planning to visit me, I am drawing up a list of things you get yelled at for in Berlin. These include jaywalking, leaning on the Brandenburg Gate, riding a bike through Babelplatz etc. It will be detailed and comprehensive. I’ll also add in the new rules I yell at people for, like sitting right next to me on the U-Bahn when the rest of the carriage is empty. Why why why?

2 comments:

  1. Haha! A tan! Sean had the same thing, he is the whitest of white people and will only go red (though I have never seen any blistering) but last year when he was a tour guide, he also got a tan! Awesome.
    Tschüß,
    Adrienne

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  2. Dear Oprah,

    You are completely hilarious, and I can't wait to get there... fuck... a tan? I am so screwed. Please to be finding designed areas where I can splay my body in the hope I may turn a slightly deeper shade of the palest white.

    Your partner in domination,
    Richie Cunnigham.

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