I’m in Berlin, holidaying. My girlfriend is with me. She is from Berlin, has lived there for over two decades (she will hate reading ‘two decades’, it makes her feel older), so there is nothing for me to fear. Yet when we were having a stroll around her neighbourhood, she showing things of importance to me or to her or to someone else and I listening to these things of importance and silently agreeing that most of them were, in fact, of importance and making a mental note of them while walking on, forgetting to take pictures as I usually do when I see things and people of an everyday nature, although they always make the best shots, I immediately got this uneasy gut feeling when she twisted her sprained ankle a bit and stopped with an expression of terror on her face and squeezing my hand tightly so it hurt. I was suddenly aware of my immediate surroundings, like the tiger that I am, really. I scanned my front, my back, for any signs of danger and only after a fleeting moment realised that there was no danger and that my girlfriend had merely experienced a short glimpse of the exquisite pain one relates to say, motherhood. In her foot.
Later I tried to analyse what had caused my strange reaction to a thing so trivial – to enhance my simile I am tempted to say ‘a thing as trivial as childbirth’ yet I will refrain from it as I value my life and never planned on dying at the hands of my dearest one. It is weird, really. I am myself no stranger to big cities. I have been a visitor to most European capitals on multiple occasions, have seen the Big Apple and the City of Angels. I was an inhabitant of one of India’s largest metropolises. And I have been to Berlin several times and know that it is not a dangerous place at all, if you manage to avoid the areas where Kebab sticks are used as daggers (Was that racist just now? I am always trying to trace the fine line between racism and sarcasm, poke me with something, for example a Kebab stick, if I crossed the line). So why do I react so utterly different to an unexpected incident compared to how I would act back home (I come from a small country in the middle of Europe where the largest city counts around half a million people. There is no crime and no vices and we all sleep on butterflies’ wings at night and dream of dwarves and elves. That is to say, we are not used to bad things happening, and if they do, once in a while, we read about it in the papers, shake our innocent heads and think about what this country has come to. Then we forget the event quickly and return to our idle paradise, reassured in the conviction that it was a foreign element for sure that caused the upheaval. No self-respecting citizen of this small, ridiculously rich country would stir things up so badly.*)? I am guessing it has to do with assumptions. Country Boy goes to the Big City. He knows that everybody in the Big City is evil. Everybody wants your money, your clothes, your life, your soul. Everybody is the Big City. So Country Boy is ready to strike out at any sudden and/or unexpected movements. It’s his (of course this is relevant for female members of the Country People community too. I simply couldn’t be bothered writing ‘Country Boy-slash-Girl’ every few words. Call me a sexist.) life that’s at stake here! Of course, if Country Boy is of average or slightly above intelligence he will find out after a few hours that not everybody wants to see him dead and mutilated. Especially not in Berlin. Just imagine the economic downfall of a city that is already notorious for its enormous debts if suddenly no Country People would come to visit the Big City anymore. They would have to start being even unfriendlier than they are! Berliners aren’t exactly known for their politeness, you might know. Or rather, they don’t say anything unless it’s vital for survival. “Thank you” and “hello” do not fall into this category. “How about getting a light for your bike, dork?” seems to be, however. Apparently, survival includes not hurting your mobility device, aka car. But that is another story, involving bicycles and cars. And bike lights. But I'm too lazy to tell it.
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For the Americans: It’s Switzerland, not Sweden. Sweden is in Scandinavia, up north. Near Norway and Finland. In between, in fact. You know, where there are moose and Vodka and Volvos.
