I have spent most of my time over the last few days
concentrating on getting my TEFL course completed as it looks like being my
most realistic chance of getting work. I
lost three days last week because of the move, so since Thursday I’ve been
working pretty much flat out. Although I’ve
now completed nine of the ten units that comprise the course, I’m only 64% of the
way through it. The remaining 36% is
covered by the final unit, which focuses on grammar. There’s a lot to do, but I’m trying to get it
completed by next Wednesday, as I’m flying to England for a few days then.
On Monday, I worked until just before midday when we set off
for the Bürgeramt for the second time since we moved here, to register our new
address. The Bürgeramt is part of a
complex of sturdy brick-built, ivy-clad blocks, each dedicated to a particular
bureaucratic function. Wide cobbled
pathways dotted with old-fashioned street lamps run between them. But despite the ‘Victorian’ visage, there is
an air of neglect – some of the buildings are in need of re-pointing, and the
grounds are choked with weeds. It makes
me think of Satis House – even without the abandoned brewery, I can easily
imagine the young Pip playing miserably amongst these sombre edifices.
To get there we had to walk past the old flat and I noticed,
as I looked up at the balcony, that since the owner returned she has taken the
patio furniture out from wherever it had been hidden. I'd been very sad to leave that flat – it
had, after all, been my first home in Berlin – but I’ve got used to the new one
now and I actually prefer it. We’re very
fortunate to have our own terrace as most of the flats in the house don’t even
have a balcony. It’s leafy in the hof
and surprisingly quiet considering that it’s right next to the S-Bahn tracks
and trains come by every couple of minutes – in fact, the end of the platform
at Prenzlauer Allee station is just a few feet away from our door. In the front of the building there is a
Russian shop/café with a lively and very friendly proprietress who gives us
chocolates every time we buy something.
Back in the Bürgeramt, we took a ticket, numbered 307, from the
machine and found a place on the seats that line the corridor to wait our turn
(when your turn arrives, your ticket number appears on a prominently-displayed
screen. The latest ticket number on the
screen was 161, so we realised that we had quite a wait ahead of us). We were among the very last of the day's customers as
they stopped issuing tickets just after we got there. The offices close at 3.00, so it makes sense,
otherwise the corridor would be clogged up with people who would have no hope
of being seen.
The waiting was reminiscent of an airport departure lounge
but with no shops or bars to distract us.
I thought that maybe they could install a few retail outlets in there to
give people something to do to pass the time – create a sort of Bürgeramt
shopping mall. Perhaps I should approach
them with a proposal to open a Bürgeramt coffee shop. The prospect of being able to pick up a cup
of coffee or a bite to eat would help enliven a fatiguing three-hour wait, I
think.
The wait, an inherent part of an unavoidable obligation, was
endured with patience and a little industry.
Some had brought work with them and sat, highlighters in hand, going
over papers. Some (myself included) had
books. Others were focused on their
mobile phones – texting, playing games, or surfing the net. Mothers wandered up and down the corridor
pushing prams, trying to keep babies content.
The tinny buzz of music from half a dozen headphones added its drone to
the sounds of tramping feet and the bell that announced the display of each new
number on the screen. That bell had such
a melancholy timbre – bi-syllabic with a downward inflection on the second
syllable. It put an image in my mind of
an old church in a forlorn village, maybe in Francoist Spain, the mournful
clang of its bell reminding the cowed population of the dismal authority it
represents.
I began to mark milestones as the ticket numbers appeared on
the screen. The first one was when
number 200 was reached, then 207 because that meant there were a hundred people
in front of us. I looked at the time my
ticket was issued: 11.58. At 12.58, exactly
fifty people had been seen, so I calculated that it would be about a quarter to
three before 307 would finally flash onto the screen and that doom-laden bell
would toll for me.
It was a neutral enough environment – the walls were painted
an inoffensive pale yellow with woodwork in light green; the floors a practical,
hard-wearing stone. I wondered whether much
thought had been given when deciding on the colour scheme to the best way of
ensuring that calm prevailed. It was a
fine day; the windows were opened, and the sound of children’s voices came drifting in
from the park outside.
As the afternoon proceeded, the numbers began to thin
out. After exactly two hours, a
hundred people had been seen according to the screen. I realised that there were only four people
behind us in the queue. By this time I
was feeling restless, and started to fantasise about being outside, either in
the park or sitting at a pavement café with a nice piece of apple cake in front
of me. I also wanted to get back to my
work.
Finally, at ten to three, our number appeared and we made
our way along the corridor to the room number indicated alongside it, to go
through what is basically a five-minute process. When we left, the corridor was deserted and
silent. Business was over for the
day. Still, now that particular bureaucratic
commitment has been addressed, we can set about tackling the rest.
Haus 6 - The Burgeramt building
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