Lıfe is berlin

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I spend almost the entire train journey asleep on the last day of Oktoberfest when the tiredness of the 6-week interrail journey, like a leaf drifting in the wind from there to there, merges with all the fun. I go to Berlin in the cool of October night. I go to the hostel in Hauptbahnhof by train, and I find it difficult to go to the bus station. At the reception of the hostel a girl in front of me is quietly making transactions. Normally I am tired of being a hasty, waiting for the girl to finish the process as soon as I have no new city to go to. When it’s time, I extend my passport, make a slip and go out to the room.
When I enter the room, I am headed to bed like a guided missile. For this reason, I realize later that we stayed in the same room as the girl who registered at the reception in front of us. Since I have been doing it with dozens of people almost every day for 6 weeks, we are starting to meet the reflexive superficial hostel dating questions. It’s a line that goes on, what’s your name, where you come from, where you come from, how long you will stay.
Katrin is a German. I studied sociology in a city I could not remember the west of the country. It was the first day in Berlin where I came to make a master’s degree. It was a few weeks late to start the school and it was not a chance to find a house. After listening to our mutual footsteps, I am exhausted and Katrin is going to go to the book early the next day.

When I wake up in the morning, it’s 10 o’clock and the room is empty. I go down to the café under the hostel and have a quick breakfast. To visit for the second time without losing time, I want to change the interrail route and fall in the streets of the city I love as much as I can to extend my travels. I realize I do not have my camera while I go to the room and organize the daily commodities I bought. I do not completely empty my big backpack, I can not find the camera even though I put the bottom of the room on the bottom. I am panicked to lose a card that has all the memories of six weeks in the camera itself.
I’m quickly starting to count the movie out of my head. I’m trying to remember where I used the last camera, where I dropped it, or it rang. The first thing that comes to mind is the train. I’m just going down the road and I’m going out. The destination is the Hauptbahnhof. I tell the guy at the desk at the giant gala. If my focus is on how to find the camera, I give as much detail as the dash on the left. The German in charge wants me to write a form with all the coolness to write down my information, the estimated time of the event, train information and camera details. Since I did not use my cell phone during my travels, the next day, I told him that I could come and get information.
I go out hopelessly. For 6 weeks, the accident-free survivor camera, including the most risky streets in Europe, the most spectacular bars, the most disorganized drunks, is flying away on a fast train journey in Germany. I’m so angry at myself that I want to find a space and slap myself. I am disgusted all day by ridding myself of Berlin streets. I come to the hostel in the evening and sleep in the fetal position early in the morning.

The next day a hope is in front of the desk in the morning in the blind. It sounds like he is asking questions and spending his hours in front of the desk. I have moments when I can master graduate thesis on the relative of time. The line is finally coming to me. I’m telling you about the situation. I find a document about the form I filled out. After you’ve phoned a few times, you raise your head and give me the answer I most like. One day I feel like a close relatives waiting at the beginning of the patient who knows he will die, and at the end of the night, my eyes are full. A bank crashes in front of the station and I cry out loud. I think of myself at the exit of Oktoberfest, “I will get the card out of the camera, I get a shit, nets in the middle of Germany” comes the word. I keep on blaming myself. Germany is a bitter country.
I am hitting the streets myself to gather myself, wash my face and look for consolation. I would like to say the first bar I saw to relieve the pangs and say, “hey bartender, prepare me the hardest drink,” but the microscopic budget, which remains long from the planned interlaced, only allows me to pound in Kreuzberg. Fortunately, tea is served. After feeding my car, I call my friend who lost his camera in Istanbul and give it as a shame. There is also a detail that is forgotten like the cameraman is entrusted. In the streets I darken the air, I get 2 beers and I go to the hostel. Katrin comes to the table in front of the hostel at the table in the neighborhood. We are beginning to talk about what you did and what you did. I tell you what happened. She laughs and tells her that she lost her camera with a memory card on her return trip to Brazil for 3 months, the reason for being late. He talks about losing all the images of the Amazon villagers, the 3 months he has met with dozens of people passing through big cities. Obviously I have to admit, the pace is a little bit compared to the comparison.
In the two cameras, when the few beers at hand are finished, we are starting to look for bars in the streets of Prenzlauerberg, which have not yet been subjected to hipster invasion, unaccustomed, occupied houses. We find a suitable bar and crash right away. The conversation that started with the cameras is darkening. Katrin tells a Turkish boyfriend that he has been together for a long time before going to Brazil, and he tells me about some of the movements that the Turks can not understand. Afterwards, he explains that he decided to pursue a postgraduate degree on the integration of immigrants in Germany simply because of his ex-boyfriend. We are debating the gaps in the integration policies of the Germans

From there he goes back and goes to Fatih Akin and his films. We are starting to talk about the Turkish community in Germany by giving examples from all filmography because it is one of our expertise areas. We start with the depiction of the immigrant world of short and painless. After agreeing how the Duvara Karşı is a tremendous work, the conversation then comes to Crossing the Bridge: The Sound of Istanbul. He explains that he has visited the whole Mediterranean and Aegean line with his old manuscript and even he saw Eskişehir, but he says that he dies to see Istanbul after the film. I’m telling you what I know from the movie musicians.
While chatting, we encounter a member who is living / working in the hostel and that I am a buddy that evening. He joins us. When the bar closes, 3 musketeers are sent to the hostel. The conversation is so beautiful that I’m not the man who weeps in front of the station that day. That night he was scolding, good people did not need to be born in the same place, speak the same language or even meet for a long time to lighten each other’s troubles; The common language of mankind is another.

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