Sunday was – thankfully – not raining, but it was officially the coldest we’ve been since we moved over to this side of the planet. It turns out that as well as frozen we are also stubborn (surprising nobody), and since we’d decided to do a walking tour of the city we put our icicles slash hands into our freezers slash pockets and carried on. I’m not prepared to say any of us were delighted about the predicament.

The tour started at the Brandenburg Gate, which we suspect was designed to be a wind tunnel specifically focused on cutting through our inadequate clothing. Luckily for it, the gate was also reasonably impressive.

Berlin is, of course, an amazing city. Actually that’s incorrect – it’s an amazing metropolis. It’s a major world hub, complex (and potentially sensitive), diverse, super cool, proud yet humble. It’s the heaving capital of a country about which everyone knows and has an opinion of some sort; infamous is too negative a word and does no justice to this magnificent place, but I can’t come up with a better description.

It was fitting that our first stop following the gate was the Memorial of the Murdered Jews of Europe.

There’s not really too much to say about it, and the sculptor didn’t. It’s a site that allows you to walk through and think your own thoughts without restriction.

The focus of the day was, probably naturally, on WW2 and the following years. The visual impact this has had on the city was significant, and there was discussion on the perceived impact on the people and culture. Many fascinating sights were seen, including Nazi buildings (still inspiring terror today as it is now the taxation office), the wall, and Checkpoint Charlie (note the dude in the sign ain’t actually called Charlie, which is a reference to the phonetic alphabet-named point). Many tales were told of successful and failed border crossing attempts, of life on either side, and of how the city has developed in the years since 1989 when the wall fell.

The infamous JFK speech was also discussed (‘I am a jelly doughnut’, for the record. Apparently it endeared him to the people of the city more than the intended message would have, so all’s well etc).

We saw some of pre-war Germany. Not all of it survived bombings, and some has been rebuilt in the image of its former glory. Some are kept in their bombed state as a reminder of the war. Yet others remain, miraculously untouched.

A site of particular personal impact was the Bebelplatz: the site of the Nazi book burnings held in the evening of 10 May 1933. Studying modern history at school, this particular event (even though many more horrific ones occurred later) always stuck in my mind. It wasn’t so much because of the intent – the restriction on thought and expression, the imposing of one way of thinking over others, and the stripping of both individuality and culture together, but rather that we had always been taught books are invaluable, almost sacred and should be treated as such. The idea of even slightly tearing a book, let along deliberately burning masses, was unthinkable to me. Even now, we repeat the manta ‘books are precious, be gentle’ to the girl as she pulls random tomes from our shelves (to be fair, she has taken this on board and rips are now rare)(unless you’re a pop-up book, then all bets are off). This mentality was more likely based on the expense of books, and their finality once destroyed, but I am sure also harks to a deeper concern regarding content and destruction of so much more. Either way, this beautiful place (beautiful perhaps because the sun finally decided to show up) and the seemingly incongruous actions that occurred here resonated, and are summed up in a quote from Heinrich Heine, written many years prior to the formation of the Nazi party let alone the burning: ‘That was only a prelude; where they burn books, they will in the end also burn people’.

(Also, yes, that’s my noggin in a borrowed Roosters beanie.)

Our tour over, we reunited with our kiddo who had been moved out of the cold to hang with her aunt and uncle, and made our way to another healthy Berlin lunch – the doner (our joint was situated on the street on which David Bowie lived, and a petition is currently underway to have its name changed to Bowiestrasse in honour of the man and in recognition of his time in Berlin).

To atone for such sins we spent the (less frigid but still chilly) afternoon walking through Tempelhof Airport. It ceased operating as an airport in 2008 after being a major hub during the war years, arguably keeping Berlin a functioning city. The main building is now used as an emergency refugee camp, and the tarmac and surrounding grassed areas are a public park. It has a slightly surreal, industrial feel and seems to align perfectly with the city.

That night, we had a birthday eve celebration which included an epic chocolate caramel cheesecake, courtesy of Dommie. It was every bit as magnificent as it sounds (and as Dom and Tim appear to be gesturing below).

Despite the cold (and related commitments to pack smarter in the future), it was a brilliant weekend, once again catching just a taster of an epic city. Adelaide had a wonderful time being spoiled rotten by her aunt, both with a slinky spring and endless cuddles (and astounding patience in reading the same three books over and over and over), and given that we’re so far away from home it’s amazing to have family a short plane trip away. A short plane trip that was pretty much hell the following day on our return home, but I’m working pretty solidly on repressing that memory in preparation for our next adventure.

It was my (gulp) thirty-eighth birthday on Monday. To celebrate, I awoke at 4.30am and took a small, cranky, newly tantrumming and top-teeth-teething child home from Berlin. I was easily the most popular person on the flight, and am trying to use wine to forget it ever happened (both the flight and turning 38). So let’s flash back and discuss the weekend in Berlin instead.

Prior to leaving, we were once again treated to a stunning Swiss sunrise. I am well aware that snaps of the sky from our window are becoming gratuitous, but we can’t not. I mean, ridiculous.

We’ve travelled a fair bit with the bambino, but the Zurich to Berlin trip was the first flight she and I had done solo. Happily she’s currently into books and goldfish crackers, so between the two a relatively uneventful trip was had (although I can recite ‘What the Jackdaw Saw‘, ‘A Day at the Beach‘ and ‘Hop on Pop‘ cover to cover)(and have developed a taste for aquatic shaped snacks). Tim’s lovely sister met us at the airport, and we stocked up on snacks and wine for the evening ahead and subsequently consumed them.

Winter in Berlin is grim, and Saturday was no exception with grey skies, rain, and wind aplenty. We decided to take an indoor excursion and opted for the Bauhaus archive.

A hub of German modernism, the Bauhaus was an art school that combined craftmanship (such as woodworking, furniture making, weaving) and fine arts (painting, music, architecture, sculpture) to obtain universal design which was practical yet beautiful. Students and teachers focused on purity of materials and artistry to make common items – buildings, chairs, lights – transcend their previously humble origins. There was an emphasis on creating for everyman: practical, useful design that merged art with everyday life.

The first thing that struck us was how ubiquitous much of the design has become. Familiar pendant lamps, gorgeous 1930s armchairs, tea and coffee and cutlery settings that would not be out of place in the homewares section of a high end department store. However at the time of their creation, such items were novel, risqué, revolutionary. The second impression was an element of 1984 (the novel as opposed to the bad hair era) – generic design for all the people, almost soulless office-like desks and kitchens and buildings. There was a sense of anonymity, an impression that good design and art would compensate for individual taste and expression. This felt incongruous with our identity of self and home now (although Dommie correctly raised Ikea as a comparison and won the conversation).

Musings aside, we embraced two of our era’s design contributions: the selfie and the photobomb.

There was a brief break in the rain, so we wandered the streets (preparing in advance a justification for our nutritious lunch).

Nutritious and delicious currywurst (and hot wine, always).

We were staying in the apartment of a friend who’d spent Christmas with us (and was currently out of town – which worked out well for digs, but poorly for catching up). We made our way back to her gaff to give the baby some freedom from her aunt’s headwear. (We didn’t stay in the water tower below, but apparently it is now apartments. Funky German apartments.)That night the weather deteriorated, and although beautiful it didn’t accommodate my small, overtired (and unbeknownst to us, about to have new teeth) baby. Tim took snaps after which we all adjourned, shivering and damp, to the restaurant on the corner for birthday champagne and flammkuchen.

We legged it home to get the munchkin into bed, and to plan our hopefully rain-free day ahead (aka birthday eve). 

I studied modern history for my higher school certificate, and was taught for several years by Miss Stroud. Her name somehow suited her: she was short, sturdy, brusque. She had harshly bobbed dark hair and was rumoured only to have one ear as nobody had ever seen both of them. She was also one of the best teachers I ever had, and made history – a subject I didn’t really wish to take, but I was even less attracted to geography and it was a case of one or the other – a thing of intrigue and fascination. Through her enthusiastic and critical tutelage I learned about China’s Cultural Revolution, the throb of USA and Soviet relations, a serial killer course popular with students (which I suspect she loathed to teach), and both World Wars. Miss Stroud was the first person I’d ever come across that took holidays to see places she had a historical interest in – the idea of taking a vacation to learn was incomprehensible to me at that time. She also, despite her brusqueness, telephoned every one of her class on the day that our HSC results were announced and congratulated us individually on our efforts.

The World War classes included, of course, the role of Germany both through the Weimar and the Nazi years. While not initially as fascinating as – say – Jack the Ripper, the rich detail espoused by Miss Stroud converted a room full of teenagers. I remember many heated discussions throughout the semester, not only about the actual occurrences but causation, society and legacy. Impassioned as teenage debate can be, it remained theoretical and abstract, hard to align with mid 90s rural Australia.

I’ve been to Germany a few times, a solid decade ago now, and these trips were memorable (or not, as the case may be) only for their intake of beer. Thus, when given the chance to head there this weekend to meet up with Tim’s sister and her partner who are currently living in Berlin, we jumped at the opportunity. We decided to meet in Nuremberg, about halfway between our two surrogate homes. A prominent city in the middle ages and Roman times, Nuremberg also has significant history for Nazi Germany, being the site of Nazi party annual rallies, then a battlefield, and later where the post war trials were held. Word on the street was that there were three main things to experience: the rally grounds, the medieval castle and Nürnburger Bratwurst. We rolled into town on Friday (some later than others, due to an erroneous train connection) and bright and early the next morning, thanks as always to our daughter, we made our way to the rally grounds.

Located slightly out of town, the incomplete Kongresshalle reminded us (on its exterior) of the Colosseum. Intended to host 500,000 people, the structure was never completed but is now a museum capturing the history of the site and explaining the rallies that were held for over a decade nearby. As I have previously mentioned, our girl does not care for The Cultures, and as such she commenced wailing right about the same time I started viewing the introductory video. She and I legged it through the vast building and wandered outside while Tim, Dom and Ro took it all in.

Apart from the impressive venue, and intricate explanation of history, Tim found that the exhibition made comprehensible the transition from a somewhat-out-there right wing state to extreme facism. Tucked away in our high school classrooms, the horrific outcomes of the Nazi state are incomprehensible, almost a caricature. It’s so hard to understand how not only a country but a considerable part of a continent can transform in this way; yet this exhibition explained the social and cultural changes that both led and allowed this to occur. It did not undermine or deny the wretched outcomes but it allowed an insight into how they occurred, making it no longer an abstract notion but something of which, under the right circumstances, any society could perhaps find itself. The other intriguing aspect of the rallies was their purpose. They were not used for education as such, but rather for the experience, a propaganda fuelled hedonistic mob, implying other parallels with the Colosseum.

Following the reasonably heavy morning’s excursion, there was nothing for it but a beverage. Happily, we had lunch planned – a belated birthday celebration for Dom – which we backed up with Delicious Gin (and Nürnbergers, which when covered with mustard and curry ketchup were delicious).
This morning we arose – happily not as painfully bright and early – and decided to tick off number three: the castle. Our wee tour guide rallied us together. 

It had rained overnight, but the morning was clean and clear, and the sun shimmered off the streets as we made our way into the old walled city.

The castle, although unclear as to exact time, dates circa 1105. Guarded by a wide moat and solid walls, it sits atop the city and boasts a beautiful view.

The castle is apparently considered to be one of Europe’s most formidable medieval fortifications. Frankly, anything boasting a double-headed bird would keep me at bay.

We spent the morning strolling around its grounds, and wandered home through the Old Town.

A starkly different experience from the rally ground the day previously, it emphasised the richness of German – and indeed all – history, the same richness and complexity enthusiastically shown to me in a classroom some twenty years ago. Not for the first time, I wished that when Miss Stroud called me to wish me well for my future I had thanked her. Not simply for teaching me about Jack the Ripper (because I was totally the student that loved it the most) but showing me a love for history, for places and people and events and motives, that continues to influence me – and, it turns out, my holiday destinations.

Our three Nuremberg must-dos complete, and a hearty German breakfast consumed, we went our separate ways. Hotel, Laidey and I returned to Rotkreuz – where we only have two more sleeps until we move to our new home – via Rheinfalls in northern Switzerland, where we watched the water flow.