Berlin (part two)

Friday is our first full day in Berlin. There's quite a bit in The Plan about today. (See yesterday's post for The Plan in full.) Will we get through it all? Probably not.

Breakfast is a do-it-yourself affair. The hotel ("It's a hostel, dad.") has a kitchen for the use of guests. We just borrow knives and plates. The supermarket over the road provides the food. Lexie brings a ravenous appetite to the table. Where does he put it all? A machine by reception spits out a coffee-like substance. "This doesn't taste like real coffee." Dolores states suspiciously. "I thought the war was over." I reply.


Brandenburger Tor
When we said we were coming to Berlin, Andrew immediately said "I want to see the Brandenburger Tor." No problem. It's easy and it's free. A winning combination. It's another short trip combining U- and S-Bahn. Any train is a form of cheap entertainment for the kids. We get off at Friedrichstrasse. I point out the gantry where once border guards stood, AK 47's at the ready. "Somewhere around here was border control" I say vaguely, hoping Lexie doesn't pick up the achy fortyseven reference and run with it right to the end of my tether. The space is filled with shiny, new shops. It bears no resemblance to my memories.

We head off down Friedrichstrasse. Where was that Cuban restaurant? I try to work out which buildings are new. Most of them, it appears. But I can't be sure. Is that the wall where there used to be an advert for the East German CDU?

The Grand Hotel still stands at the corner of Friedrichstrasse and Unter den Linden. That I remember. Used to have the most expensive draught beer in the DDR. We don't go in. It doesn't look like it's got any cheaper. And I doubt they take Ostmarks any more.

Today was meant to be hot. Over 30º C. It feels like it is already. And it's not even 11 AM. I can't remember Unter den Linden being this long. Maybe that's because the last 50 metres used to be fenced off. The border used to run about 6 inches behind the Bradenburg Gate. No way you would be allowed that close.

The kids are ready for an ice cream. I do my photographer bit while Lexie smears his shirt with chocolate ice cream. "I'm not getting you chocolate again. Look at Andrew. His shirt's still clean." It really is quite freaky being able to go up and touch the Gate. But as I move in I notice something to my right. No, it can't be. A Tucher pub? Here in Berlin? I take a closer look.

Yup, it really is a Tucher pub. Tucher am Tor, to be precise. I round up the family and sit them down. Chocolate stains and all. We've all got a bit of a thirst. It's a Tucher Alfränkisch Dunkel for me. 40 cl is 3.80. Not too bad. Same size of fanta and cola for the kids costs 4.40. The moral is simple: make your kids drink beer. "What about a Dunkles, Andrew? It looks just like cola." "Daad, I'm too young to drink beer."

Tucher Altfränkisch Dunkel. A bit heavy on the caramel. Sorry about the curtness. That's all my notes say.

This is very pleasant. Apart from the prices. We're in the shade and have cold drinks in our sweaty, little hands. In the next corner of Pariser Platz is a Kennedy Museum. "I am a doughnut." I say to the kids. "I want a doughnut, too." Lexie replies.

Inside, the pub is larger than I expect. Chic and comfortable, I'm sure Stonch would love it. It's cool in a heat sense, too. Maybe we should have sat inside


Pergamon
Andrew noticed Unter den Linden S-Bahn station on the way down. He suggests we get the S-Bahn there to take us towards the museum. It would just be one stop and save us maybe 200 metres of walking. But the "Everything about Berlin" shop is beyond the station. We noticed that on the way down, too. Both me and Andrew want to take a look. I'm hoping it has something on beer or pubs.

The shop is mostly stuffed with books on Berlin history. But just a couple of bits of it: the DDR period and the Nazis. Nothing that I'm looking for. Andrew has more luck. He finds a book on Nazi remnants. He's interested in it for the bunkers. It has a full list of them. And handy maps. Only 13 euros it costs me. I get myself a book on Germania, Hitler's loony scheme for rebuilding Berlin.

I persuade everyone it's pointless retracing our steps to Unter den Linden S-Bahn. We continue to the Pergamon on foot. We're soon so hot that no-one pays much attention when I point out all the sights along the way. What's that pile of bare concrete in the distance? Looks like what's left of Balast der Republik. No great loss as a piece of architecture.

At the Pergamon we're confronted with a long queue, sweltering in the sun. None of us fancy joining it. Hey, look over there. It's a pub. Aptly called Pergamonkeller. There's no queue there. Plenty of empty seats in the shade. "what about an early lunch?" The food is very reasonably priced. Bratwurst and either chips of potato salad for just 5 euros. We order three sasuages and one salad. The latter is for me. I have to maintain my boyish figure.

They've got Berliner Pilsenser on draught. That'll do. It's from the only industrial-sized independent left in Berlin, Bürgerbräu.

Berliner Pilsenser. It's pale yellow and fizzy. There are some hop flavours there. Pepper, tobacco, resin. Not overcomplex. Drinkable. And cold. 45 out of 100.

By the time we've finished eating, the queue is considerably shorter. Or at least the others join it while I pay. The bill is just 26.10 euros for all of us. Great value.

The Pergamon is from another age. One when archeologists were happy to cart big lumps of ancient monuments back home. Greek, Babylonian, Roman, Islamic. As long as it was old and big enough to look impressive.

The tiled Babylonian gate is certainly that. Impressive, I mean. And I suppose most of it had just been a pile of rubble. I wonder why you can photograph the Pergamon altar, but not this?

We like the Islamic rooms best. They're properly air-conditioned. Some pretty stuff, too. We lie on the benches until the guards move us on. On to rooms filled with Greek sculptures. Many of the male nudes have had their dangly bits crudely hacked off. Lexie is fascinated by the bollocks of the ones that haven't. Outside S-Bahns rattle by, just a couple of metres from the window. Can't think of another museum with a railway line running through it.

After and hour and a half we've had enough. Andrew has a quick look in the shop. They have the book he's just bought on Nazi Berlin. It costs three euros more here. Discouraged from browsing further, we leave for who knows where.


Weihenstephaner
I remember my way around this bit of Berlin quite well. As we step off Museum Insel I spot a sign for the DDR Museum. Sounds fun, but we're museumed out. Hackischer Markt is the closest S-Bahn station. At least that's what I claim. I've a printout of my Berlin Pub Guide with me. (The East Berlin part. I didn't bother with the West Berlin part. No desire to go there.) There are a couple of pubs by Hackischer Markt I wouldn't mind giving the once over. I don't mention this to the rest. A bit more walking and they should be too desperate to resist.

"Look what's over there." I say as we get to the S-Bahn. "Is it some stupid pub, dad?" "You don't want a drink then, Andrew?" "I want vodka!" Oh no, Lexie's back on that one.

The big Munich breweries all used to have pubs in Berlin. They seem to be gradually moving back into the capital. Paulaner have one. By Hackischer Markt is a Weihenstephaner pub. Literally opposite the entrance to the station. We find a well-shaded table and sit down.

They sell something like the full set of Weihenstaphaner beers. I like to do the unexpected, so I order a Dunkles.

Weihenstaphaner Tradition. Red brown. Caramel, toffee, nuts. These are words. They could be used to describe this beer. Liquorice and cream are other words. They came into my head will I was sipping this and swilling it round my gob, trying to look like an expert. 57 out of 100.

I'm disappointed that only one waitress is wearing a dirndl. Not ours. Don't they relaise what pulling power dirndls have?

"Hey, daaad" Lexies says that about 3,00 times a day. He's looking over my shoulder as I make notes. "Hey, daaad. You've spelled my name wrong. It's A-L-E-X-E-I, not L-E-X-I-E." He corrects my notes for me.

Galeria
Lexie chooses our next destination. Predicatably, it's a toy shop. Well the toy department of the Galeria department store on Alexanderplatz. Lexie heads straight for the Star Wars lego. His limit is 13 euros, the cost of Andrew's Nazi Berlin book. Star Wars lego starts at 60 euros and spirals up to giddy heights of ridiculousness. Who can afford to spend more than 150 euros on a lego model? Someone, clearly, or this stuff wouldn't be on the shelves.

He goes through the whole eye-wateringly expensive collection of Start Wars lego, asking if he can have it. "Can I have an imperial star destroyer, dad?" "No, look at the price." "Can I have a Death Star?" "That costs even more." "Can I have an AT-AT walker?" "No. It must be solid gold at that price."

I lose patience on his third time through the most expensive boxes. "You can't afford any of the Star Wars lego. Why don't you look at something else?" At least the air-conditioning is functioning well. After just 45 minutes, Lexie finds something within his price range. Some Indiana Jones lego. He's definitely getting quicker. I used to budget 2 hours for a toy shop visit.


Beer Festival
I can't wait to get to the festival. As soon as we've dumped off our stuff in the hotel ("It's a hostel, dad.") in the late afternoon I want to get out there. Dolores wants to rest. Andre is up for it, surprisingly.

The Berlin Festival is unique. It's held along a couple of kilometres of Karl-Marx-Allee. You wouldn't find many streets wide enough to be able to do that. But Karl-Marx-Allee is dead wide. It was built in the early 1950's as East Berlin's big architectural statement. In concept, it's not a million miles from Germania. A wide new avenue, flanked by monumental blocks of flats. Sounds awful, doesn't it?

But it isn't awful. It's wonderful. One of my favourite bits of postwar architecture. Anywhere. One of my Polish mates calls the style Stalinist. You see similar stuff in the Soviet Union and Poland. Sorry, Russia and Poland. A sort of human neo-classicism. It's hard to describe. But it looks great. I shut my trap and let you see for yourselves.

The street our hotel ("It's a hostel, dad.") crosses the festival exactly in its middle. Very handy. I stop at the first stall and order a beer. It's muddy brown and not very enticing. "I wonder where I can get a festival glass?" The system of glasses is also unique. You have two choices. Get your beer in a branded glass and pay a two euro deposit. Of buy a festival glass.

The advantage of the former is that you have a choice of sizes, usually 30 and 50 cl. But you have to take the glass back if you want to try beer from a different brewery. No need to keep fiddling around with deposits with the festival glass. But it only holds 20 cl.

"I wonder where I can get a festival glass?" I find out when we move on. At the very next stand. I buy one and get a festival map. That could be handy. I've promised Dolores that I'll be back at our room by 17:30. To her surprise, I am. "Axe murderer for Mrs. Pattinson" I say as I knock on the door. "Is that you, Ronald?" She's so shocked at my punctuality she suspects I really could be an axe murderer.

Typically, Roman has called in the short time I've been out. Let me explain. Both Dolores and I have appointments for later. I'm meeting Roman to pick up a bottle of Wöllnitzer. I've got a bottle of SSS for him. It's the least I can do. Wöllnitzer, the world's only Lichtenhainer, is the beer I most want to try. A short, confused call later and we've arranged a meeting.

Roman and a couple of other Beertest people are at the Czech beer garden. "It's about in the middle." he tells me. Great. That's where we are, too. Shouldn't take long to get there.

As disadvantage of having a festival strung out along a street is that it's an awfully long walk from one end to the other. The Czech beer garden is pretty central. But it's still quite a walk. And the festival is starting to fill up. Threading our way through the punters is hard work. Especially with the kids.

Dolores's appointment is for 18:30. She's meeting university friends. By the time we find Roman and chums it's 18:20. Which means I don't have time for a beer and a chat with Roman. I hope he doesn't think I'm being impolite. (We English worry constantly about appearing impolite.)

I like Dolores's chums from uni. Full of ideas and with a critical, sometimes even cynical, eye. The three we meet are real Berliners. Jörg used to live just around the corner, but is now in Prenzlauer Berg. Stefan currently lives in Kreuzberg. "You've moved to the West", I tease. "Aber Kreuzberg ist Schön! Und immer proletarisch."

Yes, I'm speaking German. It's my first proper conversation in the language for a couple of years. Amazingly, the Dutch content of my sentences is just two or three words. This is going well.

The kids might well disagree. They're starting to get bored. Time for food. Have I mentioned the festival food yet? It's very good. Lots of cakes and sausages. Not together, obviously. All very traditional. I get Andrew calamari rings. I know, that's neither cake nor sausage. But he's already had one sausage. Lexie has a rollmop sandwich.

The food doesn't hold them for long. Lexie hadn't realised the rollmop was pickled herring. After one bite he passes it on to his mum. The calamari soon disappears in the direction of Andrew's belly. The kids look restless. "What about a game of spoof?" I suggest.

You know what I like about spoof? You need almost nothing to play it. Just nine coins. Nine stones would do. And the kids enjoy it. Lexie wins a string of games. When I win one, he gets pissed off and will play no further.

These are the beers I've had so far:

Radigk's Dunkles - pretty good.
Bürgerbrä Rotkehlchen - OK.
Ettaler Curator - good.
Ritterguts Gose - excellent.

And a couple of others. But I've forgotten what they were.

We don't stay that late. It's crowded and smoky. Back at the hotel ("It's a hostel, dad."), we decide to split another bottle of wine in the garden. Me and Dolores. The kids should buy their own wine if they want to drink some. As rain turns from a few spots into a steady stream, we hunch under the table's umbrella. Lightning cracks nearby. I'm so happy. This is just what we need after such a sauna of a day.

We fall asleep to the sound of a downpour. In happy expectation of a cool day to follow.


Tucher am Tor
Pariser Platz 6a
10117 Berlin
Tel: 030 - 2248 9464
Fax: 030 - 2248 9465
http://www.thementeam.de/neu/tucher/index.php
Opening times: Mon – Sun 09.00 - 01:00


Pergamonkeller am Kupfergraben
Am Kupfergraben 6,
10117 Berlin.
Tel: 030 - 2062 3757
Fax: 030 - 2062 3757
http://www.pergamonkeller-berlin.de/
Email: info@pergamonkeller.de


Weihenstephaner
Neue Promenade 5,
10178 Berlin-Mitte.
Tel: 030 - 2576 2871
Fax: Fax 030 - 2576 2869
Email: info@weihenstephaner-berlin.de
http://www.weihenstephaner-berlin.de