Today is transition day and I am leaving Berlin and heading for Barcelona. This, of course, raises the problem of what to do with the day. I have to check out by 09:00, and check in at the airport isn’t until 13:30. I could leave my luggage here and head into the city centre, but that’s an hour each way and not really worth it. My decision is made easier by my knee and my back. Both are registering their disapproval at the amount of walking over the last couple of days. So, I decide to take a rest day – although it feels like a bit of a waste. The plan is to head into the Kurfurstendamm, find a cafe and do some planning for Barcelona.

This turns out to be remarkably easy and I soon find myself disembarking from the bus at the Europa-Center. On the way, I spotted somewhere which would probably be extremely messy if attended by the wrong people. (The “wrong people” being the IBPL.)

I skirt past Starbucks and find a coffee shop called Einstein. It’s probably part of a chain as well, but at least it feels slightly different from going to somewhere that I could easily have gone to in the UK. I settle down, start to people watch and try to learn some basic phrases for use in Barcelona. The most important of these is, of course, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish”.

My guidebook immediately throws me a curveball by telling me that the title of this entry should have been “una cervesa si us plau”. I’m thrown by this – I’m sure por favor is correct… except that the guide book is informing me that people in Barcelona speak Catalan. I then spend a happy half an hour trying to work out which language I am going to fail to be fluent in for the next few days – and end up still unsure.

This isn’t helping my trepidation about going to Barcelona. When I told a friend I was going here, he immediately warned me about pickpockets and told me that several of his colleagues got robbed while they were there. While he was trying to be helpful, it didn’t exactly make me feel happy about going there. I’d done a lot of research online since then and found a huge amount of contradictory information. Half seemed to say that Barcelona had high crime stats, the other claimed that Barcelona was one of the safest cities in Europe. (Granted, the latter report was from a website sponsored by the Barcelona Tourist Office).

What they all seemed clear on was the fact that you would be absolutely fine as long as you left your valuables locked in the hotel safe. For some reason, that didn’t put me at ease.

Anyway, the coffee is tasty but bitter – and cold by the time I’ve finished my planning. I have booked a trip around La Pedrera which should fit nicely with my Sagrada Familia tour that I booked weeks ago, and I am planning to head up to Montjuic Castle on my second day there. I have also sat there chuckling when I found out that Mount Tibidabo is a real place, rather than somewhere that Friends made up.

I’ve also found out that Sir Norman Foster has been at work in Barcelona as well. True to his form on the Reichstag Dome, he’s designed something that really doesn’t blend in but is remarkably impressive.

I replace my cold coffee (yes, alright I drank it!) with another cup and a slice of strudel (when in Germany…)

This must be part of a chain, because the strudel is a normal size!

Eventually, it’s time to head off to the airport. I decide that Google’s suggested route is far too complex, so I wander across to the Berlin Zoologischer Garten Bahnhof. The train I catch wanders its’ leisurely way into East Berlin before heading south to the airport. I’m early (duh!) and as I don’t need to check my luggage in, I head straight for security. My boots again get me stopped at the scanner, but the guy checking it is less annoying than the guy at Heathrow and he checks behind the laces to make sure I don’t have a machete, 200g of cocaine and a small family of Mexican nationals stashed down there. His English is considerably better than my German and he politely laughs as he comments “Big boots” and I reply with “Big feet.”

I get to have a chuckle as well as someone ahead of me is having a major strop as they are being told that they cannot take some of their toiletries on board. Apparently, he has come “all the way from LA” with no problem. It’s also clear that his luggage is way too large to take on board. The people dealing with him remain glacially polite, and I enjoy his discomfort all the more as he is sporting a “man-bun”. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure this is a valid sartorial choice somewhere – just not anywhere I’ve ever been.

I now have some time to kill in the Departure Lounge. Compared to Heathrow, it’s incredibly quiet. It doesn’t have less people, it’s just that none of them seem to feel the need to have screaming conversations at the top of their voices. It makes the whole place much more relaxing. What doesn’t make it more relaxing is the heat. No-one else seems particularly affected by this, so it adds to my theory of being allergic to Departure Lounges.

The relaxed atmosphere stops as soon as we try to get onto the plane. The woman at the gate came up and made an announcement which I barely understood – worryingly, it was in English. I (and several others) guessed that meant we should get ready, so we moved forward to the signs that clearly put priority boarding on the left and everyone else on the right. The lady became increasingly frustrated with people stood in the middle, so repeatedly stormed up and down yelling at them to keep the middle clear. Each time in English. It didn’t seem to occur to her that a flight from Berlin to Spain might not have a high percentage of English-speakers – and judging by the confusion on the faces around me, this was definitely the case.

Eventually, the queues were sorted out to her liking and we started to head to the gate. At this point, it became clear that most of the people with priority boarding were in the wrong queue and they tried to queue-jump. Luckily, I was near enough to the front that none got ahead of me or I would have had to give them a severe stare.

I end up beside a Scottish lady who was very open in her conversation, and made us all aware of her private business despite none of us actually being spoken to. Apparently she is the wife of a diplomat and she is concerned that she went to an “underground concert”. I check around for lurking papparazzi, but clearly no-one gave a damn. There is a delay when she reaches the desk and, to her surprise, is asked for her ID. It’s not a surprise to the rest of us, as we’ve been told to take out our IDs every thirty seconds for last twenty minutes, but clearly she is used to being recognised. She digs it out of her capacious purse, and returns to her one-sided conversation. I just hope she isn’t sat anywhere near me.

As we head down to board the plane, the whole “left and right” thing comes up again, with the woman adamant that we mustn’t walk down the centre of the gangway. Seeing as it’s now only wide enough for two people, this is unlikely to be a problem – until two air staff decide to head out of the plane. They, of course, do this as inconveniently as possible, one walking up to the left and the other to the right. As a result, we’re all standing in the middle when she comes back into view and she really starts yelling.

As we get onto the plane, they tell us to put masks on. This results in people stopping in the middle of the aisle to fumble around with their bags, and blocking the entry for everyone else. Except me. I’m sitting in Row B, so I stow my bag, put my mask on and sit down and almost immediately wonder why my knees are now approximately at the level of my chin. My pre-booked seat with “extra leg-room” clearly doesn’t exist and I just hope that no-one sits beside me. If they do, its going to be a very uncomfortable journey.

To my relief, the Scottish lady heads further back, although I can still hear her voice echoing down the plane like some kind of soap-opera obsessed banshee. It does then occur to me to wonder why a diplomats wife is travelling on Easyjet! In front of me is an empty seat, it’s yard of legroom taunting me as I sit half sideways to fit my legs in. For a moment, it looks as though it’s going to be empty, but one of the last people on is a diminutive woman who claims the seat. Of course, by now all the overhead storage is full and she has an excellent and extended moan about having to carry it further down the plane. She then disappears from view as she settles into her seat. If she tries to recline it during the journey, I’ll give her what for!

So we settle down to wait for take off. Twenty minutes later, the doors are still open. They then turn the planes power off and on again. I’m no expert, but that’s not a good sign. There is a huge sigh of relief when the power comes back on, but no-one has bothered to tell us what’s going on. In fact, they’re not talking to us at all. 36 minutes after we should have taken off, they finally close the door and the captain comes onto the intercom to tell us “the problem has been sorted out”. Wait – there was a problem? What was it? Has William Shatner spotted a gremlin on the wing? We wait excitedly for more information but instead get the incredibly predictable security briefing.

Finally, the plan disengages from the airport and we head for Barcelona. It seems for quite some time as though we’re going to drive the whole way there but eventually it lurches into the sky and takes a very gentle ascent path, giving us all a lovely view of the patchwork fields of Germany. All this delay does very little for anyone who is a nervous flier, so I try to calm down and send up prayers to God, Jahweh, Allah and Orlanth.

The rest of the journey is without incident – unless you want to hear about the in-flight food, which I suspect you do not. The approach to Barcelona is spectacular, with an impressive view of the city, Mount Tibidabo (*chuckle*) and Norman Fosters edifice.

The airport is the complete opposite of Berlin. It’s loud and energetic and everyone seems to be talking at the top of their voices. It’s also very hot – this is not, it transpires, my allergic reaction to Departure Lounges but the fact that the air temperature is over 30 degrees. (Yes, I know, after the last summer, that’s relatively low. But back then it was bloody hot!)

I head out to the Aerobus and I meet the most impatient driver I’ve ever come across. Every time someone asks him a question, he tuts and rolls his eyes and seems to take a great deal of pleasure making sure he answers in a language they will not understand. At the first stop there is a queue of tourists who are, not surprisingly, unsure of whether or not this is the right bus. Rather than helping them, he just drives off and mutters a comment which I’m sure was “Lovely tourists, enjoy your holiday” rather than anything derogatory.

The traffic on the way into town is crazy. He seems to be enjoying himself as his seat is incredibly highly sprung and he goes up and down like a kid on a bouncy castle. This enjoyment does not extend to tolerance for any delay, so when we turn onto an off-ramp that is packed with stationary cars, he leans on his horn. I consider asking why – there’s a solid traffic queue, so this will achieve nothing – but I don’t for two very important reasons: (1) I don’t speak much Spanish and even less Catalan and haven’t worked out which he is currently speaking; (2) I’m pretty sure I’ll end up at the side of the road with my luggage.

This is not a good introduction to Barcelona. The area we drive through looks like your Sim City game has gone out of control, so you’ve just dumped everything by a really big road. For a city of culture and architecture, I’m not impressed.

The bus drops me off at Plaza Catalunya which is absolutely packed and very impressive. I head down Las Ramblas which I’ve been told is really exciting and interesting. Yeah, I guess so – if you like Soho after dark. I pass the very lovely and scenic cannabis shops, the Erotic Museum of Barcelona and a man lying on the pavement with a sign saying “Homeless. Need money for weed.” At least he’s honest.

With all my trepidations about Barcelona, this is a nightmare. Luckily it’s not far to my hotel, so I can take shelter in there and re-group. Or so I hope.

I’m staying at a place called The Hotel Mont Thabor. I’ve given it a suitable Trip Advisor review, but I could summarise it in two words: A Shithole. Actually, that’s not fair to other shitholes. This is where shitholes go to die. This is a shithole that has really lost it’s way and is looked down on by other shitholes.

I head in – maybe it will be better on the inside. I am met by a greasy little man who has about him an ambience that makes me think he usually has to ask how many hours the room is being booked for. I try to engage him in conversation, and in three languages ask him whether it’s easier to speak Spanish or Catalan. He doesn’t understand and clearly just wants to return to his TV. My room is just off reception, and so I go into my residence for the next two days.

The lock on the door is the flimsiest thing since a conservative MP tried to justify a self-serving budget that “incidentally” gave him a £3000 pay rise. As a result, about 30 seconds after this photo, my bag is being used to jam the door shut. I hate it here. Apart from some stellar air-conditioning, this place is an absolute hole. It’s taken everything I was concerned about with Barcelona and added to it.

I’ll have a little side-bar here, because while I was in Barcelona, I posted the above photo while trying to explain my Facebook post “Barcelona is s**t” (You’ll get the full explanation in day two). One person’s response to this was to post the photo on a Whatsapp group that I’m no longer a member of and make several comments about people not doing due diligence before they book a hotel. Let me just set the record straight, should that feculent tosser ever read this. Unlike him, I’m on a budget. Unlike him, I don’t get off on posting plates of pretentious food that I’ve made and boasting about how generous I am to allow my servants to shelter in the house during forest fires. Unlike him, I actually have friends. I did check this place out – and it’s comments were just as varied as those I had for my previous stay in Berlin. Finally, strangely enough when I’m completely strung out and on my own in a foreign country, the last thing I need is some smug bastard like him dissing me to other people I know. Side-bar over.

So here I am, sat in this shithole. I’m sharing a toilet and shower and I really want to go out and get something to eat. But I don’t want to follow the safety guidance I’ve been given – I’m definitely not leaving my valuables here – and taking them with me into the evening Barcelona crowd is just not worth the risk. So I buy two massive bottles of water from Senor Sleaze, and hole up in my room until morning. I spend some time trying to find another hotel for the next two days, but they either cost a fortune, or are a considerable distance. I’m just going to have to stick it out.
Tomorrow, I have Sagrada Familia and la Pedrera. That will keep me busy for most of the day. Surely things will get better!

*Bonus picture*
Because that was a lot of writing and very few pictures, here’s a random otter. ENJOY!

So, dear reader(s), I left you on a cliff-hanger with my financial worries looming over me like a really big looming thing. Despite all my worries and concerns, I sleep fairly well. I do, however, wake up to a stern lecture from my legs who are not happy with the amount of walking I did yesterday. After some negotiation, they agree to carry on. Outside is a beautiful sunny day, although Accuweather and the doom-laden receptionist still claim there are going to be thunderstorms. I decide to ignore them and head down to fruhstuck.

After yesterdays encounter with what would locally be described as ein grosses fruhstuck, I decide to go for something smaller. Ironically I end up going for the Franzosisches Fruhstuck – after all, when in Germany, why not go French?! When it arrives it is (to my surprise) not obscenely huge – though the bowl of chopped fruit is still a bit weird.

I’ve included a shot of the menu – I dread to think how huge Bismarck and Walters were.

As I work my way through my croissant, I ponder the day ahead: Charlottenberg Palace, the Victory Column and Haus dem Checkpoint Charlie. A friend also wants me to find the Sausage Museum, but I’m not going to expend too much effort on that. Money is still concerning me, but I’ve worked out that my overdraft should be sufficient to keep me going, though things will be tight for the rest of month. I decide to ignore this and enjoy the holiday.

By the time I leave the hotel, it looks like Accuweather is going to be right. It’s clouded over, there are some brisk winds and it’s definitely colder. Accuweather now says it won’t rain – clearly the water descending from the sky is some form of motile water that is previously unknown to science! The Age-Appropriate hoodie is deployed and I head for the bus.

The journey is relatively simple – one bus and one train and then a bit of a walk. The busses still strike me as odd. The drivers can clearly see what is going on upstairs – someone who wasn’t wearing their mask got a severe talking to! Despite that, the seats on the top floors are covered with graffiti. It’s all a little bizarre.

The rain only lasts until I get off the train, when things ease off to the point where it all feels like being at home. I manage to stay dry on my way to the palace and I get there just before the doors open.

Inside the ticket is a steal at 13 Euros and gives access to the old palace, new wing and garden. Entrance comes with an extremely comprehensive audio guide that covers the entire old palace.

This is a truly spectacular place and has been restored extremely well. I only find out just how much has been restored in the first room where there is a computerised demonstration of the history of the palace. This is a top down view that has little people and carriages and wagons running around and reminds me (for no readily apparent reason) of Michael Bentine’s Potty Time (for all you bloody children out there, it was a television show). I’m therefore smiling to myself inappropriately when the screen darkens, searchlights appear and the Allies bomb the crap out of it. I feel vaguely embarrassed but does mean that I appreciate the scale of the reconstruction and restoration.

It takes me over an hour just to go around the old palace, which is remarkably beautiful. Lots of art, lots of silver, lots of. displays. Way too much to talk about in detail, so here’s a montage.

As you can see, their decorator favoured the under-stated approach! 🙂

It is incredibly beautiful and very impressive. There is a level of detail and intricacy that makes Laurence Llewellyn Bowen look like a soberly dressed prison chaplain. And it is in room, after room, after room. The reconstruction is incredible as is their attention to detail. One of the paintings was slashed with a sabre. When they restored the paintings, they made the decision to leave the sabre slashes apparent as they felt this was part of the story of the piece.

The audio guide is very good and by the end of the tour, I have learned various useful facts, which I will now regurgitate for you:

1. The traditional Prussian spiked helmet originated in Russia
2. The Prussian obsession with military uniforms and militaria was started by the aptly named Frederick the Soldier and was, in part at least, a fashion statement
3. Royal beds were very rarely slept in
4. In an audience chamber, you could tell how important you were by whether or not you were offered a seat. If you were, how much the monarch liked you determined whether the seat had arms or a cushion. (I am going to start doing that at work.)
   

It is a stunning place, but I decide not to check out the new wing as I’m feeling a bit “palaced” out. I have the same reaction in art galleries and museums. There’s only so much staring at things I can do before I get restless. Also, there was virtually nowhere to sit down in the palace, so my legs were reminding me of the terms of the entente agreed to this morning.

I decide to call it ein Tag and head off to the Victory Column (aka the much more difficult to spell and pronounce, Siegessaule). When I posted pictures of the column on Facebook, some smart-alec commented that Germany didn’t have any victories to boast of. Well (according to Wikipedia), the Siegessaule was designed by Heinrich Strack to commemorate the Prussian victory in the Second Schleswig War, by the time it was inaugurated on 2 September 1873, Prussia had also defeated Austria and its German allies in the Austro-Prussian War (1866) and France in the Franco-Prussian War (1870–71). So there.

I’ve already been past it several times as it has a prominent position in the Tiergarten, so I head over there on a bus. The column is right in the middle of a very busy roundabout, so the first problem is how the hell do I get to it?

I start to walk around the roundabout, traversing the numerous very busy, multi-lane roads that come off it and looking forlornly for a way across. There must be some way as there are people over there. I can even see some of them at the top (in the picture you can just see their heads in the section below the angel).

At this point it’s worth commenting on the tricky nature of crossing roads in Berlin. The crossings I am using are all traffic light controlled, so I’m thinking it should be easy. When the light shows red for me, clearly I do not cross. Foolishly, I assume that when the light is green, I can cross. This is mostly true. it seems as though the pedestrian crossing might be given a green light, but the traffic doesn’t get a red one. As a result, I often find myself nearly mown down by cars, bicycles and fucking e-scooters as they casually charge across the crossing. Everyone else seems to have the same problems as me, so this is clearly normal. I wonder what it will be like in Barcelona and Paris? You never know, you may get the chance to find out!

Anyway, back to the plot (or as much of a plot as Michael Bay ever puts into a film). I’ve got halfway around and still found no way across and can’t see any way across at ground level. I did find this chap though.

Look it’s that bloke they named a Fruhstuck after!! If you’re lucky, he’ll turn up again. (It’s almost like planning has taken place!)

Eventually, I realise that the large concrete building ahead of me isn’t a public toilet, but instead is the entrance to a pedestrian underpass. It is, unusually, completely un-signposted and (of course) there was one right by my bus stop. However, if I’d found it, I would have missed out on that nice Herr Bismarck. (Or “birthmark” as autocorrect keeps insisting).

Anyway, I get across, join the queue and pay my 3.5 euros (not exactly breaking the bank, is it!). There is a large friendly sign telling me that it’s 60 steps to the first viewing platform, and another 230 to the top. My legs are voting for the lower platform, so I trick them by stopping off there for a walk around and another view of Herr Bismarck.

Having lulled them into a false sense of security, the legs and I tackle the rest of climb…

… which is pretty steep. Luckily, the designers have very sensibly put seats at regular intervals. An elderly German lady are united by the lack of a common language and our dislike of stairs and we encourage each other to the top. The viewing area at the top is absolutely packed. There is just enough room to squeeze past people, but the view is excellent. Oh look, there’s that Bismarck chap again!

There’s a superb view towards the Brandenburg Gate.

It’s amazing to think that most of the trees in the Tiergarten were chopped down during and after World War II.

Finally, off to somewhere that is for me one of the most iconic places in Berlin – Checkpoint Charlie. My mastery of the bus and train system is now complete, so after a very slick journey I get to Haus dem Checkpoint Charlie. As I get there, It occurs to me that I haven’t since breakfast, so I head into a shop called Kamps and order a coffee and a slice of butter-streuselkuchen. There is a short discussion when I ask for a smaller slice and find that I can’t have one, so something that probably features in Weight Watchers meetings under the heading “AVOID”, lands on my plate like an elephant steak. It doesn’t seem to occur to them that if the slice of cake is longer than the plate, you either need bigger plates or to serve SMALLER PORTIONS! It is delicious – but I only eat about a quarter of it. The rest gets wrapped up and put in the backpack – and eventually thrown away.

Checkpoint Charlie is weird and, overall, the most disappointing thing about my visit to Berlin. The old checkpoint is just in the middle of the street, and I almost walked past without realising what it was.

The wall itself has completely disappeared, except for a small portion of it which is completely covered in graffiti.

I can’t work out whether the graffiti is deliberate or whether it’s just part of the general graffiti I’ve seen everywhere else. I’m actually disappointed that more of the wall wasn’t kept intact – but I can also understand the desire to rip it down. No worries, I can always buy a piece of it in the sad tourist trap known as the Haus dem Checkpoint Charlie. The museum is over-priced compared to everywhere else I’ve been in Berlin and the shop at the start and end of the tour might as well just be called “The Tourist Trap”. You can buy 99 flavours of total crap here, including “guaranteed” pieces of the wall. No bookmarks though.

The museum itself has a problem – several problems actually. It’s dealing with a sombre and sensitive subject and they have a huge amount of material that they want to try and put over. They also want to put it into a historical context. Personally, I would think this would lend itself to being organised chronologically so that we can understand the political backdrop before being shown the various ways that people tried to escape. Instead, it gives the impression of a collection that someone has built up over time and pieces have just been put in where they will fit. Rather than something like an audio-guide, they have vast screeds of text on the wall – made vaster (more vast?) because they are in multiple languages. And whoever did their translation, is not very good so I find myself struggling to understand what they are trying to say. As a result you have to really concentrate to get anything out of the experience.

My concentration is somewhat impaired by the woman just ahead of me who has decided that this is the ideal place to bring her Jack Russell. It’s okay though, because he’ll stay in her shoulder-bag.

Oops, he got out.

Oops, he got out again.

Oops, well, what a shock, he’s off again.

Oops, you’ll never guess what happened now?

Frustrated, and a little pissed off, I head off for my last visit of the day – Potsdam Plaza. This is meant to be spectacular during the evening, but even during the day it is dominated by some striking modern architecture.

At ground level, I’m intrigued by all the pictures of people and head for a closer look.

Is it art? Some kind of installation? A comment on the diverse communities in the 21st century? No, it’s a fucking advert

They’re trying to say that it’s “art” but actually it’s just an insurance company cynically using diversity as a selling point.

I head on to the Sony Centre.

It’s pretty spectacular, but little more than a frame for a variety of ways to divest me of my money. Seeing as I’m already a bit concerned about that, and my legs are definitely not happy, I decide to head back to the hotel even though it’s only 3pm.

I’ve managed to get to the one part of Berlin where there is no direct bus, so I have a bit of a walk to an appropriate bus stop. It’s beside what would seem to be a car showroom.

This actually the National Gallery, as evidenced by the odd statuary outside.

Hold on! Isn’t that second one from Babylon 5?

Hmm.

I head back to the hotel, aware that I have barely scratched the surface of Berlin. Tomorrow, I’m off to Barcelona and although my flight isn’t until mid-afternoon I won’t really have the chance to sample more of this fascinating city.

I loved it here. The people are friendly, the city is amazing and it feels like I’ve packed a lot into a relatively short time. Now off to the Mediterranean, where apparently it’s a scorcher!