(First Published in Berlin Logs, 2015)

Writing by Conor Kilkelly

A truly wonderful thing happened this week, I was fired. It’s an odd and ambivalent sensation
smiling like an idiot on the Ubahn home from your work place, from now on seemingly referred to
solely as a place-place, after being told it was best I left the company. The reason I was overjoyed
was the result of relief.

Being a newcomer to Berlin comes with a set of daunting criteria most must adhere to, or fall victim
to, before they settle into the city. First, there’s the attempted learning of the German language.
Thankfully this is overcome quite easily as Berliners are incredibly well versed in English, and of the
fact that Anglophones are incredulously ill equipped at learning even the simplest of phrases not
pertaining to the procurement of beverages.

The second notch upon the bedpost of losing your Berlinnocence (Oh dear, sincere apologies for
that) is finding a place, or at least a mattress, to call your own. This is a struggle that knows no
bounds, or dignity. Facebook groups offer an insight into the melting pot of internationals grovelling
for the chance at paying 500 euros for a 10m/sq room share in Xberg.

Having fumbled my way through these initial pit-stops with relative success, I set about completing
stage three: taking a mini job out of desperation. Money is necessary and unavoidable, like child
birth, or the inevitability of death. In order to pay rent there comes a point when facing your bank
account surpasses your concern with facing the mirror, and you do what you need to do. In my case,
I took a job as a tour guide on a motorised contraption that I had very little confidence in operating.
The prospect of earning a cool twenty euro a day, despite long hours and minimal breaks was too
good to pass up. Food is pleasant, after all. What was unexpected and unnerving was everything
else. These devices were designed to do away with what the inventor apparently deemed to be an
inconvenience of the human condition, namely, walking. Somewhat inevitably they failed miserably
as the vehicles of the obese future he envisioned, now solely operating within the domain of
tourism.

Our company had a knock off equivalent of the original product, but it worked just as well … until it
didn’t. This brings us to the unpleasantness that goes hand in hand with mini jobs. When you’re
working on the fringes of legality, and general working welfare guidelines, things occur that may
leave an formidable aftertaste. In my case, this was the scenes of terror etched onto the faces of
those unsuspecting tourists who fell, or witnessed falling. Only one ambulance was ever needed on
one of my tours, and I honestly believe it was his own doing that he fell, but this does nothing to
quench the feeling of guilt which arises upon seeing him reel in agony upon the pavement. At any
moment I knew a battery could die, and fling a body a distance before I could manage to utter a
tidbit of information about the famous statue now impaling my client.

Before I was let go I had a run in with the police. They informed me that I had committed two
offences: taking a child on a tour, and going through a park on what was essentially a road vehicle.
Both of which, I assumed were fine as the training was not the most intensive component of my
short lived career. Effectively, we were told to just go, get people, and do tours. The rest was on us.
After I was warned I may be held solely responsible for these sanctions, I had no knowledge of privy

to occurrence, I became a little peeved. After a nice bout of cursing the company, my employer, and
myself for getting into this situation, it became clear to my boss I was not entirely suited to the role
of tour guide. I was paid somewhat, and told it was for best I leave. On hearing these words
happiness arose within me, and the guilt finally subsided. I could now pay my rent, and knock off
another notch. Only ten more until Berghain.