Die Wohnung

Following on from last week’s post, here’s part two of the story of my Berlin adventures, and the unfortunate consequences of a particular purchase:

In 2007, three years after our first visit, we were certain that Berlin was the place for us.  In March of that year we decided to look into the possibility of buying our own flat.  We contacted an agent and made arrangements to see a number of properties.  We are not wealthy and had no savings but prices were low and we calculated that there was probably enough equity in our house to be able to raise the funds required.  I nurtured a dream of having my own little place in the city, of arriving on a late evening flight and not having to check in to a rented apartment, or indeed check out at an inconvenient hour, of having my ‘hausschuhe’ waiting for me and wine chilling in the fridge, of being able to leave things behind when the necessity of complying with airline hand luggage restrictions meant that we couldn’t carry everything.  In short, of having our own little Berlin haven.  But it was more than that.  As we had decided that, at some point we would make a permanent move to Berlin, it would mean that we would have a place to live in.

We flew out to Berlin and on our second morning, an agent picked us up and drove us to see a few apartments that met our budget, mainly studios on the fringes of the Eastern neighbourhoods.  We found a tiny, unrenovated studio in an Altbau in Chodowieckistraβe.  I liked the fact that it was unrenovated as it meant that we could put our own stamp on it.  I wanted to keep as much of the flat’s ‘character’ as I could rather than fitting it out with the inevitable Ikea kitchen and sterile looking bathroom.  It also had its original tiled stove which I was determined to keep, despite it being in an inconvenient position and obsolete.  The only downside was that the flat had a tenant.  However, the tenant gave us a verbal agreement that she would be prepared to move out, so we borrowed the money, signed the paperwork at the German consulate, and by August we were the proud owners of a tatty little studio with no proper bathroom in the Eastern reaches of Prenzlauer Berg.  It was our little piece of Berlin.  It was also, quite possibly, the most reckless thing we had ever done.  We didn’t ask the tenant to move out straight away as we needed to save enough money to get the renovations done.  Every time we visited we would walk past our flat, imagining the day when it would be our name over the doorbell.  Eventually, in 2011, we decided that, although we still didn’t have enough money saved, we could at least get the essentials done so we contacted our lawyer about the terms of the tenancy.  The first surprise came when we were informed that we needed to give our tenant twelve months’ notice.  However, we looked at this positively – it would give us an extra year to save – and we had the termination notice prepared.

The twelve months came and went and the tenant had decided that she was staying put.  This was the start of a year-long nightmare.  We consulted our lawyer who told us that we had an option to ‘claim’ the tenant out in the courts.  However, we would have to prove that we had a genuine need of the property, whatever that was supposed to mean, and that, even if we won, the tenant would only move out at her own convenience, which could theoretically mean never.  We consulted our property manager who told us that we could probably have our tenant legally removed on the grounds that she had not fulfilled her contractual obligations with regard to the maintenance of the flat and that it was, in his words, in a ‘terrible state’.  He gave us a key to the hof and we went in and looked up at our flat.  The windows were filthy and, as it was a warm day, the balcony door was open, enabling us to see a stack of rubbish piled up against the wall.  We then asked our property manager if he would be willing to take some photographs for us of the appalling state the property was in, that we might use to support our claim.  Here was where his interest in helping us dried up.  He stopped answering our e-mails and ignored all of our further requests for help.

Our next idea was to offer the tenant compensation to move out.  Apparently, this is a common practice in Germany.  We decided that, as it could cost us 6000 Euros to mount a legal case, we would offer her that amount as compensation.  This, our lawyer informed us, was a more than generous amount.  The tenant initially accepted the offer, but our joy at this was short-lived.  She subsequently consulted a tenants’ protection association and was told that we were ripping her off and that we should offer at least 12000 Euros.  We attempted to contact the association to arrange a ‘round the table’ meeting that we might put our case forward and come to a reasonable arrangement with the tenant but they refused to answer.  We felt devastated.  I strongly believe in tenants’ rights and I believe that tenants need protecting from unscrupulous landlords but we had, in the six years that we’d had the flat, never once increased the rent, which was pitifully low.  We had complied with everything that had been expected of us, paying for repairs whenever they occurred, buying a new cooker, a new toilet, even taking out a bank loan for a new boiler.  We had also had verbal confirmation from her that moving out wouldn’t be an issue.  However, there seemed to be no legal protection for us.  She had let our property deteriorate to practically a ruin but we were apparently powerless to do anything about it.  We decided that enough was enough and, reluctantly, we put the flat on the market.  We were back where we had started.  It was the end of a cherished dream for me but by then I just wanted to see the back of it.

It was during a visit in May 2013 that Alan had the idea of using the money we made from the sale to move to Berlin for a year and see how things worked out.  We had rented an apartment in EberswalderStraβe and were having breakfast on the balcony one sunny morning with the street beginning its morning routine two floors below.  We had arranged to see a few available – and empty – flats during our week-long stay and at first I was against the idea.  I had fallen victim to the property-owning mentality that years of Thatcherism had indoctrinated into the British psyche, to the extent that I was unable to imagine becoming part of the renting culture.  However, there were other things to consider.

Owning a flat entails a financial commitment to the maintenance of the building as a whole.  When we had the Chodowieckistraβe flat, there were yearly meetings regarding what works were needed and we were always liable for a proportion of the costs (luckily, these were calculated according to the size of the property, so our contribution was relatively low).  Over the years we paid hundreds of Euros towards roof repairs, external renovations and refurbishment of the hof. 

Another concern was that, thanks to the education-averse UK government, it looked increasingly likely that my job would be coming to an end and committing to another costly purchase didn’t seem appropriate when facing the possibility of unemployment.

In the end, I came around to the idea and as the year progressed we set a date, located a flat and sought a tenant for our house in the UK.

I have learnt that you must be very careful buying a property in Berlin. It can be almost impossible to remove a tenant so it’s best to look for an empty property.  It is vital to get a good lawyer.  Ours has been brilliant – always prompt to reply to any query, willing to give us valuable time to talk through our options and never trying to persuade us into taking costly actions that might come to nothing.  I have also learned not to expect too much from your property manager; ours did little more than take our money.

We had two years of hell with our tenant but that’s behind us now and, even though I still feel bitter about it, especially if I happen to go past Chodowieckistraβe, I’m happy to be living here without the burden of property ownership.

Unreal City

Berlin under a carpet of snow has a characteristic beauty and atmosphere.  I remember the first time I ever saw it snowing here.  It was a March evening in 2007, and the snow just arrived without warning, transforming the streets within minutes.  There have been many occasions since, and remembering them leads me to the inevitable contemplation of what exactly it is about Berlin that has drawn me back again and again.

Our first visit to the city was in 2004; it seems unbelievable to me now that we left it so long.  We’d had successful first time visits to Boston and Brussels that year, but it was Berlin that we returned to, although it hadn’t been the most inspiring of trips.  I suppose that, for Cold War kids stuck in the 1980s, Berlin was more of an ‘idea’ than a geographical entity, so we came to it with all sorts of preconceptions.  We had booked a three-night stay in a hotel managed by a friend-of-a-friend in Leipziger Strasse, close to Checkpoint Charlie – ideally placed for some serious sightseeing, but rather soulless and lacking identity.  I remember that on our first night we had the most abominable meal on Unter den Linden, and finding good bars nearby was impossible as there didn’t seem to be any.  The worst aspect though was that while we were here, my dad died.  Not Berlin’s fault I know, and it wasn’t a complete shock as he had been very ill for some time, but it still made us wish we hadn’t made the trip.  I remember that I was standing outside the Einstein cafe on the corner of Friedrichstrasse when I received the news and, whenever I’ve found myself in that part of the city since, at what I’ve come to think of as ‘Einstein Corner’ I’ve inevitably relived that moment.

Later, we decided that Berlin deserved a second chance, so the following year we included a visit as part of an unusual journey which began at my sister and brother-in-law’s house in Mallorca, and ended in Krakow where we spent our wedding anniversary.

This time we had greater success.  We explored the neighbourhoods of Prenzlauer Berg, Friedrichshain and Kreuzberg, just wandering the streets, checking out interesting-looking bars and cafes and, in the process, becoming enchanted with a city that was grungy and graffitied, cosmopolitan and ‘multi-kulti’.  We knew we had found somewhere special.

But how does one explain Berlin’s appeal?  It’s not a romantically beautiful city in the way that Paris, Venice or Prague are.  There are no pyramids in Berlin, no Grand Canyon, or sightseeing heavyweights of similar calibre.  Yet to me, the wide, often roughly cobbled, tree-lined streets, the shabby little cafes with their flea-market furniture, the little neighbourhood parks and squares, the canal-side walks, the elevated U-Bahn tracks along Schonhauser Allee and Skalitzer Strasse, the trams that snake their way through the eastern suburbs to converge at Alexanderplatz or Hackescher Markt all embody a uniquely ‘Berlin’ kind of beauty.  Of course, the main commercial areas with their international chain stores, are pretty much the same as anywhere else.  But beyond this, the neighbourhoods and backstreets are where the soul of Berlin is to be found – the odd, quirky, and often downright bizarre.  Berlin never fails to turn up surprises.

As for sights, the city abounds in World War II and Cold War monuments.  The Brandenburger Tor, Checkpoint Charlie and the Holocaust Memorial are some obvious examples.   There are excellent museums and a world-famous zoo.  However, for me, the understated eloquence of the Stolpersteine – tragic in their ubiquity – or the Käthe Kollwitz Pietà in the Neue Wache are as powerful and emotive as anything anywhere, as is the ‘empty library’ at Bebelplatz, a monument to the Nazi book-burning which took place there.

After that second visit we returned to Berlin at any and every opportunity.  We scoured the websites of low-cost airlines seeking inexpensive flights, and all of our holiday entitlement was taken up with trips back to the city.  We visited in December for the Weihnachtsmarkts, in summer for the pavement cafes and the evening vibe in the Mauerpark, in March, when we both have our birthdays.  We have seen the city melting in 30 degree temperatures, been in sudden thumping downpours which have sent people fleeing into bars and cafes for shelter, we have taken atmospheric twilight walks through a snow-covered Volkspark Weinberg, and found fallen chestnuts in Kastanienallee. 

Of course, we have seen changes in Berlin since our early visits (any city is after all an organic entity and Berlin seems to be continually reconstructing itself) – the spiteful demolishing of the Palast der Republik, the equally unforgivable closing of the Tacheles, the relentless gentrification, particularly in areas such as Prenzlauer Berg.  The city seemed more umbilically connected to its Cold War past a decade ago, and ‘Ostalgie’ shops such as Mondos Arts in Friedrichshain, which sold DDR memorabilia, were far more ubiquitous than they are now.  I think of the Ostalgie phenomenon as an essential part of the city’s psyche.  It had been the focus of some of the ghastliest events of the twentieth century.  It had, for nearly thirty years, been schizophrenically divided by the Wall.  It had to come to terms with its past and to renegotiate its role in the world.  The process is still ongoing and it would be naïve to say that Berlin is without its problems.  However, for me, it is in the main a city of tolerance, of freedom and diversity, a place where anyone can feel that they have found a home.

Socialist Sunday

So the new year is under way.  I've learned that the way to dispose of your Christmas tree in Berlin seems to be to just leave it in the street, or not to take it down at all.  By 13th January, lights trees and decorations were still going strong in some homes.

I'm trying to establish a routine again now that the festive interruptions are behind me, beginning with the resumption of my language classes.

On Sunday (12th) there was a march in Friedrichshain to commemorate the socialists Rosa Luxemburg and Karl Liebknecht who were murdered by the far-right Freikorps in January 1919.  It began at 10.00 at Frankfurter Tor where the participants gathered.  The atmosphere was reminiscent of a festival with music playing, and vendors selling everything from pretzels to left-leaning newspapers and magazines to red carnations.  Once under way, we walked down Frankfurter Allee to the socialist memorial at Lichtenberg.  Accompanied by waving flags and with socialist anthems belting from loudspeakers, we drew a fair contingent of curious onlookers from flats and hotel bedroom windows.

I was heartened to see so many people still committed to the ideals of socialism.  Coming from the UK, it's easy to despair with Cameron's coalition demonising the poor, dismantling the NHS and curtailing entitlements to welfare while simultaneously cutting taxes for the super-wealthy. 

The LLL march (Luxemburg, Liebknecht, Lenin) was truly uplifting and inspiring.

Berlin Fashion Week is now under way so cue an invasion of hipsters.  I won't be turning into a fashion blogger though!

Gathering at Frankfurter Tor

My red carnation

 

Along the route

Keeping us entertained with revolutionary music

 

 

At the socialist memorial

 

...in pictures

Random selection of pictures from December:

 

Beautiful Christmas lights, Palma de Mallorca

Palma

The Soller train

The Cathedral (and Moon)

The bay - hard to believe that this picture was taken on 6th December

The magnificent Café Antiquari from the outside

Bookshop in Prenzlauer Allee

Silvester cocktails

En route to the Stadion An Der Alten Forsterei (home of 1. FC Union Berlin)

A walk in Kreuzberg

Thursday street food night at Markthalle IX, Kreuzberg

Waiting for the S-Bahn to Schonefeld (flying to the UK for Christmas)

Fairly obvious what this is - at my sister's house

Sony Centre New Year's Eve

Cocktail bar at Wohnzimmer

All that smoke is from fireworks - looks very werewolf-ish

Wish this hadn't turned out shaky - think a firework startled me as I was taking it

Fireworks on Helmholtzplatz

December

Usually, December sees me falling victim to the seasonal affliction of roaming cluelessly and fruitlessly around crowded shopping streets in search of gifts, and generally running around manically trying to get the jobs done around the house that I've been putting off all year.  It's also always been a tense time at work, coping with prison inmates who are facing Christmas away from their families.  This year the festive period presented me with a very different set of challenges.  The past couple of months have, in general, been for me what football managers like to refer to as a 'steep learning curve'.  Adjusting to my new life has been much more complex and stressful than I ever anticipated, and although I'm still stupidly happy to be living in Berlin, the complete change of circumstances has been a bit of a shock to my system.

I've been diligently working away at learning German, often tearing my hair out at the grammar and wondering if I will ever be fluent enough to get a job.  Having Germans tell me what a difficult language it is to learn doesn't exactly fill me with confidence.

Despite the fact that I'd been sleeping better than I had in years, I had become pretty run down and by Christmas I had a rotten cold, which I seem to have infected all my family with (sorry folks).

Still, December had its high points.  At the beginning of the month we had a little trip to Mallorca.  To a native of Northern Europe, experiencing 19-degree temperatures, blue skies and palm trees while Christmas illuminations were up all over the place seemed very surreal.  The Friday was a bank holiday and we decided on impulse to take the rickety wooden train from Palma up to the lovely old town of Soller in the Tramuntana mountains.  The train was packed with excitable Mallorcans enjoying a day off in the sunshine in suitably festive spirits.  Before we hit the mountains - this is a beautifully scenic journey - we rattled alongside woodlands that were full of people barbecuing, setting up picnic tables and generally partying.  This, and the gorgeous weather, made it feel more like Easter than Christmas.  It was incredibly beautiful though; I love Mallorca and I could ramble on at length about the whole trip, but I'll just post some pictures instead.

Christmas itself saw us back in the UK which was being battered by heavy rain and high winds.  We had the freaky experience of living for four days Alan Partridge style in a Travelodge.  It was only a flying visit though, just time to catch up with family, enjoy one of my sister's legendary Christmas dinners and renew acquaintance with the Coopers Tavern in Burton - for my money one of the best pubs anywhere.

We were back in Berlin for Silvester and the lunacy that involves.  We went to see Inside Llewyn Davis at the Sony Centre, Potsdamer Platz, in the afternoon, then went for a pizza before holing up in Wohnzimmer for the evening.  The cute little cocktail bar kept us well-oiled (I've got fond memories of the 'Dirty Dieter') and Helmholtzplatz seemed to be exploding for hours before midnight.  Come the hour itself, everything went mad.  It seemed as though the whole of Prenzlauer Berg had turned up armed with explosives, and for a good hour the square was a riot of noise and colour.

Now it's all over, the fireworks have gone, the Christmas trees have been hurled unceremoniously into the streets, and it's time to grab the new year by the horns and get down to the serious business of finding a job.