grease in the kitchen and mildewed spots on the walls and Anna shook her head. “Sorry,” she told the sullen German girl showing the place, “I’m a clean freak.” She got an I-could-care shrug in return.
She’d heard Neukölln was up-and-coming, but the zone the second flat was in was more down-and-going. She negotiated cracked cobblestones between graffiti-spattered buildings with a sinking feeling that proved justified when she was buzzed in only to practically trip over two nodding junkies in the trash-infested courtyard. She went back out front, rang again, and said, “Thanks . . . but no.”
Luckily, the third time was the charm. She found Kreuzberg lively and colorful, its streets filled with Turkish women buying produce, up-all-night goths heading home, and others of all types, races, and ages. She lunched on Tibetan noodles in a cute little restaurant, where a two-course meal cost less than a glass of wine in London.
The apartment was a first-floor walk-up off the busy Mehringdamm. Its door was opened by a tall blue-eyed young woman with hair the color of wheat. “I’m Kirsten,” she said. “Danish, not German. Come in.”
Anna entered, and Kirsten led the way down a long, wide hallway. “Not so pretty, this hall, because the owners covered the original floorboard with laminate,” she noted disdainfully. “I think they fear renting to anyone under fifty means their apartment gets wrecked.” Anna would have said she’d worry, too, but “Lisa” just smiled and nodded.
The big living room was simply furnished in Ikea modern. “The lease is in Susanne’s name. It’s her name on the bell, Susanne Francke. She’s gone to Turkey for a month with Hana, who’s Turkish, so both their rooms are available. There is also Paola, who’s Italian. We’re like the UN. Come, I’ll show you the rooms.”
The two bedrooms were tiny, the apartment obviously having been broken up over the years. Each held a bed, chest of drawers, small bedside table, and a wheeled rack for clothes. There were hooks on the wall, with a shelf over them. “Not much space, but this is typical of Berlin,” Kirsten noted.
There was a decent-sized bathroom with a tub and a smaller bath with a shower, as well as a long, narrow kitchen.
“I like it,” Anna said when the tour ended. “And it’s three hundred and fifty euros for a month?” Pretty much the cost of a single week in a hostel or cheap hotel, and no need for a passport.
“ Ja , either bedroom. Utilities included. And I would need three hundred and fifty euros as a deposit.”
“That’s perfect! An American I met on the train needs a place, too. Can I call her from your phone and have her come over?”
They waited for Chyna over mint tea in the living room. Kirsten explained that she was studying German for a year before going back to Denmark to teach, then asked “Lisa” what she did. Anna pulled out the old inheritance line. “I thought this might be my only chance to see the world. Not that my grandmother left me much, but since I ditched my awful job, I’ve been traveling on the cheap: London, Paris, Amsterdam. A month is good—long enough to get to know a place.”
Kirsten grinned. “What was the awful job?”
“Supposedly the assistant editor at an interior design magazine. Instead, I was a glorified file clerk. Not so glorified, either. Bumming around Europe was a better option.”
When the buzzer sounded, and Kirsten went to let in Chyna, Anna shook her head in bemusement at her own inventiveness. Still, when all this was over, she thought she really would try writing a novel. If she survived.
Chyna loved the apartment, so Kirsten went over the house rules. They were simple: no going into one another’s bedrooms without asking, no dates brought in without agreement, and no overnight guests ever.
They got to meet Paola before they left. Small, dark, and friendly, she, like Kirsten, spoke impeccable British-accented English. “In Italy,
She’d heard Neukölln was up-and-coming, but the zone the second flat was in was more down-and-going. She negotiated cracked cobblestones between graffiti-spattered buildings with a sinking feeling that proved justified when she was buzzed in only to practically trip over two nodding junkies in the trash-infested courtyard. She went back out front, rang again, and said, “Thanks . . . but no.”
Luckily, the third time was the charm. She found Kreuzberg lively and colorful, its streets filled with Turkish women buying produce, up-all-night goths heading home, and others of all types, races, and ages. She lunched on Tibetan noodles in a cute little restaurant, where a two-course meal cost less than a glass of wine in London.
The apartment was a first-floor walk-up off the busy Mehringdamm. Its door was opened by a tall blue-eyed young woman with hair the color of wheat. “I’m Kirsten,” she said. “Danish, not German. Come in.”
Anna entered, and Kirsten led the way down a long, wide hallway. “Not so pretty, this hall, because the owners covered the original floorboard with laminate,” she noted disdainfully. “I think they fear renting to anyone under fifty means their apartment gets wrecked.” Anna would have said she’d worry, too, but “Lisa” just smiled and nodded.
The big living room was simply furnished in Ikea modern. “The lease is in Susanne’s name. It’s her name on the bell, Susanne Francke. She’s gone to Turkey for a month with Hana, who’s Turkish, so both their rooms are available. There is also Paola, who’s Italian. We’re like the UN. Come, I’ll show you the rooms.”
The two bedrooms were tiny, the apartment obviously having been broken up over the years. Each held a bed, chest of drawers, small bedside table, and a wheeled rack for clothes. There were hooks on the wall, with a shelf over them. “Not much space, but this is typical of Berlin,” Kirsten noted.
There was a decent-sized bathroom with a tub and a smaller bath with a shower, as well as a long, narrow kitchen.
“I like it,” Anna said when the tour ended. “And it’s three hundred and fifty euros for a month?” Pretty much the cost of a single week in a hostel or cheap hotel, and no need for a passport.
“ Ja , either bedroom. Utilities included. And I would need three hundred and fifty euros as a deposit.”
“That’s perfect! An American I met on the train needs a place, too. Can I call her from your phone and have her come over?”
They waited for Chyna over mint tea in the living room. Kirsten explained that she was studying German for a year before going back to Denmark to teach, then asked “Lisa” what she did. Anna pulled out the old inheritance line. “I thought this might be my only chance to see the world. Not that my grandmother left me much, but since I ditched my awful job, I’ve been traveling on the cheap: London, Paris, Amsterdam. A month is good—long enough to get to know a place.”
Kirsten grinned. “What was the awful job?”
“Supposedly the assistant editor at an interior design magazine. Instead, I was a glorified file clerk. Not so glorified, either. Bumming around Europe was a better option.”
When the buzzer sounded, and Kirsten went to let in Chyna, Anna shook her head in bemusement at her own inventiveness. Still, when all this was over, she thought she really would try writing a novel. If she survived.
Chyna loved the apartment, so Kirsten went over the house rules. They were simple: no going into one another’s bedrooms without asking, no dates brought in without agreement, and no overnight guests ever.
They got to meet Paola before they left. Small, dark, and friendly, she, like Kirsten, spoke impeccable British-accented English. “In Italy,
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