I’m sitting in a second-class sleeping compartment drinking red wine looking forward to leaving the train in Mannheim. It was supposed to be first-class. A sleeping compartment but one with washing facilities, more space, better. It was supposed to be white wine but the bottle fooled me.

German ringing in my head, voices clamouring to be heard, after going to the theatre last night. We bought Tageskarten, day passes, to the transport system, allowing us to train-hop, tram-hop anywhere in the city, and in the morning made our way by U8, U2, U6, to Hallesches

A late start. We walk to Senefelderplatz U-bahn. Take the number 2 to Alexanderplatz. Cross underneath the station and directly below the Fernsehturm join – at the very last moment – the Fat Tire Bike Tour. There are 22 in our group. A Belgian couple, a Brazilian, an Indian, one or

W. is of the opinion that the re-unification of Germany after 1989 was a conquest and that the BRD claimed the conqueror’s or (Realpolitik) victor’s prerogative of rewriting history. This to explain the missing years. Arriving at the Sony Centre after a brief jaunt down to the

What I described as retro-chic would be better called Osti-chic. It carries that somewhat questionable association, like Red Army chic or Soviet chic. Because today we visited two of the Sunday markets where the consistency of this style was readily apparent. In the clothes. The furniture. Some of

Little time to bid goodbye to Venezia this morning, our itinerary requiring that we take a bus boat to Piazzale Roma, thence a bus bus to the airport, to check in with Air Berlin for an 11:30 flight to … Berlin. Check-in time stated as 9:00, so arising