Brussels to Berlin
Berlin - Brussels - Day 2
I had a terrible night. After falling asleep to the gentle pitter patter of rain, it poured all night. I was jolted awake by a torrential downfall, reminiscent of Keith Moon’s early drum solo’s, bashing away on the skylight window two feet above my head. I’d left the window open and after the rain stopped, the shriek of a passing train whistle made me bolt upright, heart racing and for a quick minute I was convinced I was having a heart attack. To add to my dismay, the bedsheets were not up to my accustomed thread count and the pillow was mushy and hard like a bag of semi-defrosted peas.
When I did wake up at 7am, I took a refreshing shower while the other guests slept. Tea and cold pizza was the perfect breakfast.
Aboard my 1st class carriage (only $80 more than 2nd class) there were hangers, little nooks for phones, chargers, water bottles and a soft head cushion atop my seat. I settled in feeling a little smug but once we took off I was facing the wrong direction. I moved, going through the whole procedure again to face front, while the first class, first classers looked on bemused. I hate traveling backwards, it literally feels like I’m going back in time.
The early sun chased and danced around like Nightcrawler from X-Men 2, joyfully dazzling the carriage, trees, cottages and farmhouses then silhouetting the bold obelisks of the urban sprawl. Soon we reached a blanket of backwoods with pretty farmhouses deposited perfectly between church spires and morning bonfires of damp autumn leaves.
T Mobile welcomed me to Germany! Has anything changed? No, the first thing I saw was a Lidl.
I was anxious about making my transfer in Frankfurt after we lost 20 minutes at the German border, but we made up the time, and I boarded my Berlin-bound train with six minutes to spare. Settling into my double seat, with a stunning view of the German countryside, I was struck how similar it was to the landscapes of Constable, Turner, and Gainsborough, all at once. Sunlit pastures, winding meadows, pastoral farms and babbling brooks spread out like the English home counties, where you half-expect to knock on a door and be greeted with a cup of tea.
The 8-hour trip flew by in a blur, buoyed by my curated Freedom playlist (Hollow Coves, Vance Joy, Leon, Pet Shop Boys, Nick Mulvey, and more) and the scenery that stirred aimless wanderings of the mind. Lunch was a casual affair: the last scrap of leftover pizza and my final brisket roll. To complete this Italian/English-inspired meal, I rocked to the café for a steaming Earl Grey tea, perfectly paired with the last of Mum’s wonderfully moist banana bread. The crunch of walnuts and the warm aromas of cinnamon and cloves gave each bite a little love from home.
As expected, Berlin’s metro was efficient and simple to navigate. I checked into home base 30-minutes after arriving at Central Station. The Circus Living is an apartment complex located off a dual carriageway behind a low railway bridge. The location felt a little dystopian, especially arriving at sundown. My room on the 11th floor had a balcony that overlooked what looked like Europe’s largest building site.
After unpacking for 2 nights, a feeling of joy washed over me at the realization that I wasn’t sharing facilities. Liberated, I took a shower with the door open. The feel good factor prompted me to search for a cocktail bar but none seemed to hit the New York Old Fashioned vibe I was looking for. I was soon to learn that Berlin is more grit than glam, so I gave up and headed to Alexanderplatz to see what I saw.
Nonchalant straight backed cyclists slipped by every two minutes, unnerving me on my brisk walk through the long shadows and soon I arrived at Alexanderplatz, which was, as far as I could tell, a shopping center for people who loved doner kebabs and a place where tram drivers loved to sneak up on you for a giggle.
Alexanderplatz
A giant TV antenna loomed over the skyline, anchoring a place that felt scattered and without purpose—like Covent Garden without its piazza. I snapped a few pics to capture the atmosphere while a lost-looking Asian businessman with a scraggly beard sat cross-legged under a railway bridge, drinking whisky with a group of street folks.
Hunger pangs distracted me and I slipped into a mall which promised noodles and sushi on exterior menus. I didn’t want Asian food. I wanted Bavarian food but when I’m hungry and tired my stomach removes logic and replaces it with Homer Simpson’s drooling for any kind of food. Mmmm Pork Chop! The Asian restaurant was closed.
I Googled nearby bars with food and I headed to a place called…The Pub, well, I am English and I had wrestled back control of my brain from my stomach, and traditional German food—sausage, cabbage, beer—sounded great on this nippy night. The Pub was located on the back streets of Alexanderplatz and from the outside looked inviting and cozy with dark exposed wood, candelabras and picnic tables, perfect for Bratwurst and Sauerkraut!
They were fully booked and didn’t even have space for one at the bar!
“Damn you cruel world!”
My heart sank, sending my brain into meltdown as my stomach once again took the wheel. I implored the host to point me in the direction of German sausage - lots of it! He calmly pointed to the bustling restaurant across the street. I entered, desperate, and a kind man, I think he was the host, smiled and bid me to follow him. He sat me at the end of a long picnic table by the window. Two young German lads sat to my left. I scanned the menu for ten minutes before anyone came over. German sausages, burgers by the half pound and fifty shades of potent beer were in abundance.
Fifteen excruciating minutes later (In New York as soon as you sit down a nice person comes over and gives you ice water) I was on the verge of walking out because nobody had paid me any attention. Just as I considered reaching for my bag, an apologetic blonde waiter came over. He said they were very busy, I agreed!
He recommended dark lager and the crispy knuckle of pork with cabbage, beets and bread dumplings. I ordered without hesitation. The beer arrived at once. It was delicious and nutty with hints of cocoa and cinnamon. I almost finished it and began to panic because I needed more beer to go with my pork knuckle.
A Must!
CRISPY KNUCKLE OF PORK,
Twenty minutes later, I glanced around in despair, convinced they’d forgotten my order. My beer glass now sat empty, so I stood, channeling Jason Bourne, and strode purposefully to the bar, mentally sizing up everyone’s weight and assessing the nearest exits. I had forgotten to look at car number plates. I said “hallo” to a waiter in my best German and demanded:
“Excuse me, I ordered the pork knuckle about 20 minutes ago, do you know if it’s coming soon? It’s just I’m very worried it may have been forgotten. And also I would love another pint of that delicious dark beer when you have a moment please. I’m sorry to bother you. I know you’re busy, it’s just that I really want that dark beer when my pork knuckle arrives and I also asked for a glass of ice water from the first waiter? That hasn’t come either. I’m sitting right over there by the window. Thanks very much.”
The waiter nodded blankly and I returned to my seat after a bathroom stop, hoping to return to a sumptuous feast of roasted pork and beer.
My table was as I left it—empty beer glass, no pork knuckle. It was now 8.30pm and way past my dinner time. The table in front of me accepted a huge plate of Bratwursts and handed them out like they were so fancy and special. I need pork knuckle dammit!
Pork Knuckle!
Just as I contemplated bawling and rolling around on my side from hunger, my waiter flung open the kitchen doors and marched over holding a tray, my tray, beset with a plate of glorious crispy caramelized pork knuckle and a quivering pint of dark beer. It was magnificent. He was beautiful. It was sensational. The boys beside me did a double take. I licked my lips, cut into the crispy skin and took my first bite—apple infused crackling, rosemary, a delightful thin strip of luscious fat between the skin and succulent flesh. Pig, tender like the Bavarian night with sweet dark ale to wash it down! Heaven! Mmmm Pork Knuckle…I was Homer again and my stomach was driving!
The bread dumplings were awful, like someone had shaped Wonder Bread into balls and rolled them onto my plate. They didn’t go with the sauerkraut and sponged up any gravy without return when I paired them with a perfect bite. I may as well have had a tennis ball on my plate. Terrible idea! “What’s wrong with potatoes?” I asked the waiter. He replied:
“It's der traditional vey. I myself prefer der podadoes too. Dey are very much better indeed.”
Bugger!
I thought my meal was a feast but the boys beside me were served Flintstone sized burgers and the largest mountain of fries I’d ever seen. I contemplated walking home but after two pints, a gargantuan pork knuckle and bread dumplings…
Uber.
Once home I made a cuppa—decaf Yorkshire Tea—ate some Swiss chocolate and watched a Korean soap on Netflix before falling into a gleeful sleep.
English Tea, Swiss chocolate and Korean TV - file that one under bliss.
