Berlin - Day 3

Waking up to Europe’s largest construction site wasn’t so bad after all—there was a decent sunrise above the cranes and rubble. Over a cup of tea and a bowl of granola, I mapped out my day:

Brandenburg Gate
Reichstag Building – Norman Foster Dome
Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe
Potsdamer Platz
Checkpoint Charlie
Museum Island

I had an early dinner planned with an old acquaintance from New York, so the goal was to squeeze in as much as possible before then.

At Strausberger Platz, while waiting to cross the street, I noticed a man beside me brimming with nervous energy. Tall and animated, he wore a bright pink shirt with a tie and waistcoat. As the lights changed, he danced across the street and juggled four pins, balancing them on his head between dramatic stage bows for the bemused drivers. When he returned, breathless and smiling, I pulled out my camera.

“Can I take your picture?”

Felipe was from Peru, he’d been juggling since he was 12, with a circus-ring smile, dark black clown curls, and gushing theatrical energy. He described his life working at Berlin’s busy intersections, selling his act with the flair of a royal variety performer. I captured some video and stills and shared them with him via WhatsApp after we exchanged Instagram handles.

On the train to Brandenburg, I felt a warmth from connecting with a stranger in a foreign land—the kind of encounter I craved. So much so that I missed my stop while thinking about Felipe’s extraordinary life. How he’d gather his pins and cycle around the city each morning, picking which intersections to work. What raw courage he summoned to perform in all kinds of weather to random audiences, relying solely on his juggling to survive.

I eventually arrived at Brandenburg Gate, teeming with tourists, vloggers, and school groups. After snapping a few pics I moved on to the Reichstag Building, hoping to explore Norman Foster’s dome. I’d booked the only available tour—7 PM—but tried my luck with an old cockney blag:

“Cor blimey, I’m only in Berlin till noon, me old mucker!”

The eye-rolling gatekeeper was unmoved.

At the **Memorial to the Murdered Jews** **of Europe,** rather than feeling empathy, I felt detached, lost in the labyrinth of anonymous concrete blocks. Afterward, I ate a crisp, palate-cleansing apple and was struck by the stark shafts of angular light on the gunmetal exterior. A hot air balloon hovered in the background, an eerie contrast to the somber setting.

En route to Potsdamer Platz, I stopped at a stall where a pudgy man with a sorrowful face sold Russian-style fur hats.

“How’s your day going?” I asked.
“€5 for a picture,” he replied.
“I asked how your day was, not how much for a photo.”

He waved his hand dismissively. I took a picture anyway and, grinning, asked him for €5. He jumped up as if to chase me, then laughed as I ran off.

A familiar aroma of curry led me to a buzzing Indian restaurant offering a set lunch for under €10. Young German professionals tucked into naans, basmati rice, and pungent curries at window-side tables. I tried not to gawp, fought off the grumbling in my stomach and pushed on.

Potsdamer Platz was vast and underwhelming. As I wandered, a smiling, deaf man tapped my shoulder and handed me a petition for disability awareness. I signed and gave him a couple of euros. To my surprise, this earned me a heartfelt hug.

The cynic in me checked my pockets on the down escalator—all good.

Hoping to find an underground mall with fabulous food, I instead discovered… the metro. And a tiny café with sad pizza slices. My stomach growled. You want curry, you fool. What are you waiting for?

I backtracked to Amrit, the Indian Restaurant I’d seen earlier and opted for the spicy lamb bhuna with salad, rice and nan for €9. I also ordered a dark beer after being smitten by yesterday's pint with the pork knuckle - Mmmm pork knuckle.

Beside me, young fashionable Germans engaged in deep, meaningful conversations, making plenty of eye contact. Fluffy naans were expertly wrapped around cubes of chicken or chickpeas and washed down with pints of blonde lager.

**Lukewarm Curry**
My salad arrived and it was a substantial bowl of spicy yellow cabbage, tomatoes, onions and a slice of orange among the greens. Then came my bhuna. One bite, and my heart sank. *Lukewarm.* I flagged down the waiter.

“Can you heat this up?”

He frowned, touched the metal bowl, and sighed before whisking it away with an eye-roll. I cannot eat tepid food. At Mum’s, after plating Christmas dinner, I always zap mine in the microwave for 45 seconds.

The curry returned, now piping hot, with the extra chilis I’d requested. One bite, and the sweat beaded on my forehead—perfection. As I ate faster, chasing the capsaicin rush, the waiter smiled.

“I too do not like warm food, sir. But we do so many lunches, we have to pre-plate. Otherwise, it would be an absolute chaos.”
“Ah… Mmm… Ooh.” My brain was on fire. Mmm…fire good!

With a warm belly I continued to Checkpoint Charlie, which was crawling with tourists and English school groups. Teachers that sounded like Penelope Keith, barked things like, “Notting Hill! Pay attention now! Please!”

After taking a few pics, I went in search of Museum Island but was distracted by a grand cathedral to my right. Intrigued, I found the entrance and slipped inside. The concierge, a sleek man with light blonde hair and a pencil mustache, greeted me with a trick question:

“Hello, are you here to see the interior of the cathedral?”
“Er, yes.”
“Aha, unfortunately sir, although it is actually a cathedral, there is no cathedral interior. This is a government building and part of the urban work of art that is Gendarmenmarkt.” He explained, with a smug well-practiced speech.
“So there’s no church interior at all?”
“No but you may go and see the government installation if you like?”
“Pah!”

Back outside, my feet protested after three hours of walking. I spotted a Tier bike and thought, How hard can it be to cycle around Berlin?

Downloading the app took ages without Wi-Fi. Then a message popped up: Tier has been acquired by DOTT. Which meant I had to download another bloody app. When I finally unlocked the bike, its daft battery was dead. The nearest living bike was two blocks away—an eternity on aching feet.

Damn you, cruel world!

Also, my highly rated Reebok hiking shoes squeak like a dying-mouse from the left sole. It’s unnoticeable on busy streets but mortifying if you’re close to someone on a quiet street. I keep forgetting to Google a fix.

By the time I reached Museum Island, I realized it was too vast to take in by bike and fatigue had set in. I mapped my way home, but navigation errors sent me in circles past Alexanderplatz four times. I thought my legs had given out, but no—my stupid bike battery was dying. Despondent, €12 poorer, and having cycled in circles for half an hour, I dumped the bike at the nearest dock. If I’d just followed last night’s walking route, I’d have been home in nine minutes.

Uber.

Back at The Circus Living, I made tea, ate chocolate, and put my feet up for a brief respite.

I’d arranged to meet Dieter at Banja Luka, a mellow garden bar in Kreuzberg—an area I’d long wanted to visit because its mix of hip, thrifty charm and unpolished grit sounded like the east village in the 80’s which I where I met Dieter in 1989.

Back then he was like a kid fresh from clown school—tall, wild-haired, gangly, and slapstick clumsy. He’d climb over furniture, battle and dive into dumpsters after consuming copious amounts of drugs and alcohol. Though mellower, his joie de vive remained intact.

We debated tacos vs. fried chicken, Berlin’s vibe, his new job as a special needs carer, my travels. Then moved onto a livelier spot.

In the new bar the Brazilian barmaid (who resembled Marta, the woman with the sawn off shotgun under the pillows, in the Scarface chainsaw scene), took offense when I ordered a drink and said thanks Mami, (a harmless New York habit).

“You no call me Mami! In Brazil you get killed if you call me Mami. Puerto Rico and Columbia yes Mami, but I no Colombino! I Brazilian!”

Later, when I asked for some water, she screamed:

“You wait! Later!”

Eventually, she calmed down, but not before giving me another lecture on the dangers of calling her Mami.

I asked Dieter for a new spot—curious to explore more of the hood. At his suggestion, we ended the night at Mysliwska, a gritty neon-lit bar with a door buzzer for entry. The Sheffield-born bartender played old-school anthems but the pièce de résistance was a graffiti-covered bathroom—where, to my delight, I found my name immortalized by Sharpie.

I pushed my morning train back two hours, jumped into an Uber and went to bed dreaming about fried chicken.

One Day in Berlin

Brussels to Berlin

Berlin to Prague