Freelance and non-committal is the way of life if you’re under 30 in Berlin. It gives you a free ticket to guilt-free lie-ins, an excuse to partake in wild Sunday night clubbing exploits which spin on in a narcotic haze into early Monday. The under 30’s in Berlin reject the rat race. Instead they fill their days with journeys to organic supermarkets with tattered tote bags swinging off their bicycle handles, eventually finding time for an activity which provides them with just enough connection to the real world – usually studying or working in a coffee shop. Joining the ranks as an honorary Berlin twenty something, I chose the Irish pub as the steady supplement to my freelance lifestyle.
The Irish pub is an international phenomenon. From the Americans who treat St Patrick’s day like a national holiday, to tourists who share Instagram snaps of clinking Guinness glasses, the Irish pub has become a beloved shrine to laughter, song and drinking. It’s appeal plays on the universal fondness for the Irish and our expectations of their charm, amenity and penchant for a tipple or two.
All cultures and backgrounds who step through its doors are looking for the same thing. They do not expect fine dining and they know that the wine list won’t be up to much. The rule is: order a beer. A whisky if you know your stuff. Expect the atmosphere to be loud, for the odd glass to smash above the drunken chatter. But this is all accepted within the bounds of the innocent banter and jollity. A certain tolerance permeates the bar. The vast variety of nationalities leaves no room for judgment.
There is one man in my pub who comes alone every Sunday, sits for seven hours and drinks a Schöfferhofer Weizen per hour. He told me that he is an Irish construction worker who has been in Germany for over 20 years but still doesn’t feel it is his home. I asked him if he would like to return to Ireland. He said there is nothing for him there and he will move on somewhere else. He likes to think of himself as a nomad. He says, “you’ve either got it in yuh or you haven’t”. But his loyal weekly sojourns in the pub tell me otherwise. I can’t help thinking – as he sits there lonesomely staring at nothing in particular – that he is dreaming of his home country. That far away in Germany the Irish pub provides him with a connection to the past or to something comforting he has left behind.
I have noticed this pattern in several visitors. Many sit like the Irish man – couples too. Feeling no pressure to make much conversation, they while away the hours with beers in hand. Their stance is not closed off but open. They observe the others and let out a smile when they see them having fun.
Nationalities become meaningless. As a waitress, I lose the ability to distinguish between German and non-German customers. It is only when I need to communicate with them that their guise of all-purpose reveller is pulled back to reveal their true identity. Since I often forget which language I have been using for each table, I settle for a half-German, half-English approach which ends up with a mélange of waitress jargon that can be understood by everyone – “everything OK?”, “another drink?”, “pay?” (or indeed, for the latter a simple mercantile rub of the fingers will do).
Of course, when you’re on the side of the service, as it gets busy the waitressing style becomes one of no nonsense. Charm and banter go a long way, however, once the place fills up, the customers you were just chatting to become drunken obstacles in through which you are fully licensed to barge using the clutch of eight Berliner Pilsners as a battering ram. One gets used to straight-talking: informing with a weary sigh the more pernickety of punters that the barman will most certainly refuse to accommodate their far-fetched drink inventions. In busy situations, cultivating one-word answers to queries as to the location of the bathroom, the function of the jukebox and/or cigarette machine.
With the exception of one unfortunately snobby English woman I once encountered, who insisted that the Irish stew she was served was inauthentic, the visitors generally accept the lack of sophistication of the venue – even revel in the excuse it gives them to let loose and drink their troubles away!
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