Burger - no relish

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