Berlin's Tegel Airport is situated five miles outside the city. The metropolis has grown to eight times the size of Paris, at 340 square miles, since the reunification of East and West Berlin.
William's hotel, the Madison, was located in the neighborhood of Potsdamer Platz. Because William didn't know how tight his work schedule would be, I assured him I could find my way to the Madison. I did some research and, what did you know, the airport shuttle stopped right in front of the hotel. I changed U.S. dollars to Deutschmarks, found the bus and hopped on. On the ride I whipped up doubts about my research and teetered up the aisle to query the driver.
Potsdamer Platz? I asked in a small voice. My Parisian confidence had disappeared.
He nodded, but I wasn't certain that he understood me.
Madison hotel? He nodded again, more firmly this time, and I entirely missed his hint to get back to my seat and leave him alone. Instead, I stayed next to him and hung on to the metal post. We both stared out the front windshield as if I had suddenly appropriated the position of co-captain.
Fortunately, for everyone's safety, the driver ignored me and kept his eyes glued to the road. It couldn't be this simple, could it? This bus stopping exactly where I needed to be? But I had nothing else to say. I only knew hello, good-bye, please and thank you in German.
Danke, I squeaked, finally careening back to my seat to sightsee nighttime Berlin. We sped past pizza parlors, little brick apartment buildings and wide boulevards full of trees. I pressed my face against the glass and wished I was with those people drinking wine, laughing and eating spaghetti.
The bus passed the few older buildings left standing in Berlin after World War II. Destroyed in the war by some fifty thousand tons of bombs, Berlin today was a city in transition. During the war, a thousand bombs a day were dropped on the city. Ten percent of them never exploded and continue to be a hazard when construction crews dig up the metal cigar-shaped tubes. Crews at Tegel airport alone have excavated more than five hundred bombs.
As we left the older buildings behind and transitioned to an ultramodern world of skyscrapers, I popped my head forward, hoping to catch the driver's attention. Perhaps he'd forgotten my stop. Potsdamer Platz. I whispered it over and over. Potsdamer Platz, Potsdamer Platz....It felt good in my mouth, like a hard candy. Other passengers disembarked along the way and soon I was the only one left on the bus, in the dark, in a foreign city with a burly driver....Potsdamer Platz. Potsdamer Platz....
Scheiße.
I took a deep breath, held it, and decided to believe that the driver and I were in agreement on the goal: The Madison hotel in...yes...Potsdamer Platz. Saying it calmed my nerves.
And then, there it was. Gleaming and new: The Madison. My new home. Through its glass doors was a sharp, contemporary lobby. I was relieved and wanted to hug the driver, but he didn’t seem up for that. After a few too many dankes, I stepped onto the street, bag in hand, and waved "so long" to the driver. He displayed no reaction.
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