Why it helps to speak the language....

It's a good thing I speak German, I thought to myself, sitting on the bus. It was 10:15. I'd started out from Friedrichstraße in central Berlin just before 9. I'd navigated the U-Bahn, the S-Bahn, found my correct underground line, knew my station to get off. I was to take the S1 in the direction of Wannsee, get off at Mexikoplatz, and walk 20 minutes to get home.

It'd been raining all day, off and on, such that I was never properly dressed and my desire to wander through the city was inversely proportional to the amount of precipitation.

I'd just spent the evening with Oxana. She's from Russia, lived in my little city two years ago. She was also an Aupair, and we went to Vienna together in an ill-planned but nevertheless enjoyable adventure. She and her boyfriend were visiting his parents outside of Berlin and were in the city for the day, prior to their departure back towards Frankfurt the following day. We had arranged to meet by the pool in the Sony Center on Potsdamer Platz at 5 PM, from where we took a boat tour of the city (one of the few touristy things I haven't done). Wind and rain drove is inside with the cigar smokers for the last quarter hour, but it was actually a lovely trip.

We then went to Hackischer Höfe, a series of restored courtyards full of restaurants and galleries, beautiful and kitschily touristy at once.

Anyways, they headed off to their Hauptbahnhof and I to my Friedrichstraße Bahnhof, to find the trains on my line alternated between ones that go all the way to Wannsee and ones that go only so far as Zehlendorf, one station too soon. I would ride the train to Zehlendorf, wait 10 minutes, take the next train from Zehlendorf to Mexikoplatz and walk 15 minutes home.

Delay after delay. The minutes stretched like rubber bands; I was tired and damp, my non-breathable jacket keeping me perpetually moist and slightly uncomfortable, my hair in disarray, and nothing to read but a travel guide of Berlin. Which I had already read. Twice.

At Zehlendorf I was to wait 12 minutes for the next arriving train. The rain pattering on the station roof reminded me of the wet walk I would face, so I decided to use my idle time to my advantage. I found a map, found where we were, where I wanted to go, and the nearest possible bus line. A few questions, EntschuldigenSiebitte x 3, and I stood under the roof and waited a mere two minutes for the arriving 115 which would take me to Am Rohrgarten, where I was staying. I appreciated how I wouldn't have even known which bus to take, nor found the stop, if I hadn't been able to speak German. Useful, foreign languages are.

So there I sat in the bus, congratulating myself for my coup, for not having to wait the 12 minutes and sparing myself most of my walk.

,,Ende Haltenstelle. Steigen Sie bitte raus'' (End station. All passangers please exit the bus) came the voice over the PA.

?

End station?

But...but...but....

...but I wanted the next stop!

We were stopped. One busstop too soon. On a deserted street. At night. In the rain.

,,Do you want to ride back with me?'' (the bus driver) (puzzled look) ,,If you want to wait 15 minutes, I drive back in the other direction.''

I explained that I actually wanted the stop after. I explained I wasn't from Berlin, didn't know the streets. I told him where I lived, the nearby streets. He looked confused. He lent me his cell phone; the Fiehrings' phone was busy.

Now what?

As I contempated the empty street, our collective lack of map, and the probability of having to return to Zehlendorf, take the train one station further and walking 15 minutes in the rain, another bus rounded the corner. I and the helpful driver approached the other bus, explained the issue. The other guy hadn't heard of my street either, but mentioned Mexikoplatz. I jumped at the chance and in the bus, thanked the helpful driver of the first bus, and tried not to think of how it would have been better to leave well enough alone and stick with the first plan.

So as we were on our way to Mexikoplatz I sat in front. We crossed an intersection I recognized as being a block away, several minutes closer than Mexikoplatz. So I asked, the driver stopped, and I exited the bus at an intersection (L.straße & P.straße) I had been to many times before, congratulating myself on another coup.

I headed for home, cutting though a subdivision, surprisingly upbeat despite the rain and my since-two-hours wish for a restroom. My shortcut took me back to P.straße. Didn't look familiar, but whatever. I'd get to it, sooner or later.

What I got to was a bridge. There wasn't a bridge between where I got off the bus and where I wanted to go; ergo, where I was going was not where I wanted to go. With the help of a busstop map, I determined I had exited the bus at the proper intersection and promptly went in the wrong direction. Armed with this knowledge and a desire to bang my head in the wall I jogged back to where I had exited the bus 20 minutes prior, found my bearings, and made it home just as the clouds opened up.

In the end, it took me almost two hours to get home (a normal hour journey). I spared myself no wait time, no walk time, and it turns out the end of the first bus line was closer to home than where I eventually exited the second bus, just a short stroll through a park away. I couldn't have known this, but if I'd have had a map, I'd have spared myself half an hour, a bus ride, and the stress.

I guess speaking the language isn't everything......