Berlinternship

Internships are getting a bit of a bad press at the moment, and there are a lot of horror stories about year abroad students in particular being majorly exploited for little or no money. Even among my friends I've heard of people being forced to do overtime or run personal errands for lazy bosses on a power trip, and it's so so unfair, and makes me realise how lucky I've been with my placements.

The worst thing is that it is just luck - most people sort out their internships way before the start of the year, with the overseas aspect preventing them from meeting their boss or being able to go in and get a feel for the office environment. So in defence of the humble internship, here's a summary of what I've done and learned over the year.

Both of my internships in Italy were unpaid, but luckily between the Erasmus grant and Student Finance there wasn't a financial issue, and I was happy just to have found placements in the industries I was most interested in, particularly my one in Rome, which was working as a reporter for an online newspaper and so was basically exactly what I wanted to do. I became well-versed on gross Italian foods, radioactive boars, the ever-amazing Pope, Berlusconi's dog, the hottest Italian athletes and best Italian chat-up lines  - some personal hightlights among the 100 or so articles I got to write, but it was just really fun being part of the small team and hunting out Italy's best news stories, as well as sourcing interviews and features.

Alongside my Rome internship, I was offered some paid work writing freelance articles for a local magazine, which was great I think may even have been my first time ever getting paid for writing. My first article involved scouting out Rome's top brunch spots (where I got to sample their wares for free) and the second was a round-up of cultural events going on in the city, for which I got free tickets to an international dance festival. From meeting other foreign journalists through my placement, I had quickly learnt the value of a well-timed, shameless 'profession drop', if that's a thing - it's amazing how quickly a hefty brunch bill can transform into a stack of complimentary pancakes once you whack out the 'did I mention I'm a journalist' card (seems to work regardless of whether you're actually in the food reviewing business). I'm also not quite sure why journalism seems to involve so much brunch, but who's complaining?

So one of the main attractions of my Berlin placement, in PR, was finally getting my first ever proper wage, something which is depressingly absent from journo internships in most countries, but having worked here for a while now, it's also been interesting to see what goes on in the other side of the industry.

I'm working for a digital agency, or an 'ideas and innovation agency' as it enigmatically refers to itself. Although the Berlin office has only been open for a couple of years, it's already won several awards, and worldwide the company has the impressive accolade of being the most awarded ad agency, so it was quite daunting to turn up with embarrassingly little knowledge of the digital world. I mean, I know my way around Facebook, 4od and the part of YouTube with all the Let It Go covers as well as anyone, but know nothing about the behind-the-scenes coding and binary(?) stuff. As I'm interning with the company's PR Director, I'm not involved in any of the actual projects - which is just as well, as they're all incredibly techy, with everyone's desks crammed with a suitably intimidating number of screens, all spouting lines of code or fancy graphs - but my job is to help with promoting the projects and the agency in general.

This has involved helping people in the company prepare for press interviews, helping with visits and talks at the office for design students, writing and translating press releases about the agency, and helping plan and organise events, working on everything from finding a candyfloss machine rental with the option of orange coloured candyfloss (surprisingly difficult) to marketing the event across social media to creating name badges for guests. My boss has created a strong contender for the world's most detailed spreadsheet, which has every single task necessary for the event, down to things like 'make sure curtains are drawn' and 'make back-ups of the back-up copy of the guestlist. It's a step up from the Tesco Value vodka runs and brainstorming a bizarre costume theme which were the cornerstones of our Entz event planning at uni.

Then there's internal communication, which accounts for a surprising amount of the PR role. In a huge company with over 1,500 employees worldwide, the bosses try to make sure everyone stays up to date on what the other offices have been working on, so there's an internal newsletter each week which I've been helping put together (favourite task being the interviews for the weekly employee profiles, in particular the revelation from one of the managers that she knows how to milk a cow). And within the Berlin office, I'm in charge of sending out a daily press review, which involves reading all the day's tech and digital news and sending out summaries of the major stories, in Germany and worldwide. I have my suspicions as to how much notice anyone takes of this, but if nothing else it's been a handy crash course for me to figure out what the company actually does and what's going on in the industry. It's also taught me loads about things like which jobs are most at risk of being replaced by robots and how hackers can control your home via your toaster and stuff so that's always good to know.

And of course, there's the admin. A lot of my time has been spent putting together and updating various documents; calendars of work and awards across the agency, submissions for newspaper articles, the agency's profile on industry websites, employees' biographies. Generic internship stuff, but it's nice to know that my little bit of research is being used for a pitch, and that my work has helped someone prepare for an interview or something.

Thoughts on Germans and road-crossing

Why did the German cross the road?
If you answered anything other than 'because the green man was showing', you lose.

The Germans seem to share the British ingrained respect for all rules, but none of our reserve. I've been on the receiving end of loud tuts and disapproving head-shakes for crossing the road while the red man was showing - I looked both ways, there were no cars to be seen for miles, and I'm also 80% sure the traffic light was broken, but that wasn't enough to deter my fellow road-crossers from sticking it out.

They're probably still there now, slowly growing weary, tired and cold from standing on the same bit of pavement for over 24 hours, but warmed by the inner satisfaction in knowing that they are following the rules.

I'm all for road safety, but it takes a bit of getting used to after Rome, where every pedestrian crossing felt like the Hunger Games arena - may the odds be ever in your favour indeed - and the green man meant nothing more than 'haha we're still going to drive straight at you, loser'.

It really begs the question of why Khrushchev bothered with the Berlin Wall; in a country whose population can seemingly be kept in one place just by the presence of a luminous red man, it seems he may have missed a trick.

On another note, German traffic lights are in themselves pretty great, at least in former East Berlin. For one thing, the Ampelmännchen ('little traffic light man' - isn't German just the best) is wearing a bowler hat. When in stern red mode, he's depicted with arms outstretched, as though physically obstructing his fellow pedestrians from attempting an unsafe crossing, something I would not be at all surprised to hear many Germans actually do, while his green counterpart appears to be swinging his arms enthusiastically as he strides across the road. It's one of the few features of the Communist era to have survived the fall of the Wall and become an integral part of Berlin culture, and there's even a dedicated Ampelmännchen souvenir shop. Only in Germany.

Getting things done

Since my first week in Berlin, things have been a little less tragic (and a lot less phlegmmy, you'll be pleased to hear) and I think the German productivity might even be rubbing off on me. After six months of Italian shoulder shrugs, 'behhh's and general things not working as they should, it makes a nice change to be in a country where you can actually rely on people and transport schedules. In my last week in Rome it rained, quite a lot even by my Mancunian (or thereabouts) standards, and everything ground to a soggy standstill. The metro went into complete shutdown, shops closed, and I learnt that 'oooh it's a bit wet outside' is a valid reason for Italians to take a day off work. I'd love to see how far that would get them in England.

Anyway, true to stereotype, the Germans get stuff done, and now, somewhat less true to character, so have I.

Probably the biggest achievement was finding a flat within my first two weeks, something I'm still feeling a bit smug about. Having heard several people's tales of the various struggles/despair/scams/compromises/animal sacrifices etc etc (one of those might be made up) they'd had to go through before finding a flat, I really didn't want to get involved in the househunt at all. I hate ringing people up, for one thing. But as it turns out, the prospect of homelessness is a great motivator, so I went to three viewings, and the last one turned into an offer of a flatshare, which is where I'm living now for the next six months. It's a really nice flat in a cool bit of Berlin, shared with a German girl and with special features including a Nespresso machine, toaster and kettle (rare luxuries in these foreign parts), and a massive book on cocktail making which was left in my room. It's also on the fourth floor with no lift, so is basically a flat and a gym in one. Bargain.

During my first weekend, Kate and Claire, two of my friends from college, came to visit Berlin. With local knowledge extending no further than the nearest English speaking doctor, my office and the supermarket, I wasn't able to be a very good tour guide but it was great to see people from back home who are also doing the whole 'live in another country, go on it'll be funny' thing. They're both enjoying their years and seem settled in their countries, which was good to hear as throughout the year it's become obvious that universities don't give any help with the year abroad at all. You are just sort of unceremoniously dumped in a new country and expected to fend for yourself; it can go really well or really horribly badly, and I've heard stories from both sides.

After they left, I went along to a voluntary project I'd heard about. The idea is that a group of volunteers prepare a healthy 3 course meal for local homeless people - actually, anyone can go, but if you can afford it, you're supposed to leave a donation which will cover your meal and that of a homeless person (this is only about €5). There's some live music, this time from an Ethiopian band, and the idea that is that as well as the food, it gives the homeless community some more interaction than just with care workers and so on. I'm completely guilty of ignoring homeless people on the streets, mainly because I don't think giving them money directly is usually the best way to help, but then I feel guilty about seeming rude and ignoring them, so it was nice to be able to get involved in something which has a positive impact. Everyone there was so friendly and I'm hoping to go back each month to help.

After the dinner I also went to a comedy night with some girls I met there. It was 'Deuglish' night, which meant there were 3 comedians from Germany and 3 from England. I'd never seen German comedy before, and it was a bizarre night, but I couldn't say how much of my confusion was down to their odd sense of humour and how much was just my lack of German knowledge.

So it seems that Berlin is much nicer when you're not all fluey and sorry for yourself - who'd have guessed. It's fast becoming my favourite city, even from the little I've seen from it in between my internship, winning major bonus points over Rome for the fact that everything works. More exciting tales soon about the job, the city, and the wonderfully efficient transport network (the latter potentially not so exciting for someone who hasn't spent 6 months in Italy, and 20 years before that in a tiny village, both of which subscribe to the motto of 'you wait ages for a bus, and then none turn up, ever')

I live in Berlin now...

...Just about. In what turned out to be a gross overestimation of my capabilities, when I planned my switch between countries I gave myself a grand total of 64 hours between finishing work in Rome on a Friday afternoon, and turned up to my new job on Monday morning, in Berlin. I'm not quite sure why this seemed like such a fantastic idea, and it is not a tactic I would recommend.

The actual, physical, moving part went surprisingly well, considering I'd inexplicably gained an extra suitcase of luggage during my first five months. No matter; I am by now well practiced in the fine art of standing looking helpless in an airport with my cases, and again once on the plane as I clog up the aisle, too weak to lift my definitely-over-the-permitted-weight hand luggage into the locker and steadfastly ignoring the glares of hatred from other more competent passengers, until some kind stranger takes pity. I even made it to my temporary accommodation relatively unscathed, and used the weekend to embark on my flat hunt. I think some part of me was vaguely expecting that in those vital 64 hours I'd manage to fly to Berlin, find a flat, remember all my German, assimilate perfectly into the new culture and turn up at my new office with time to spare, ready to wow my new boss.

Instead, none of the above happened, and upon arrival at work I spectacularly failed to open the front door, and managed to get stuck in the bike shed where I had to await rescue. In my defence, it is an extremely heavy door, and as previously mentioned, brute strength is far from my forte.

As first impressions go it was fairly tragic, and only got worse, as I went on to spend the rest of the week developing some kind of flu. I really really didn't want to be 'that' intern who took the second day off sick, so took the (in hindsight far worse) option of being the intern who coughed a lot, probably infected half the office and could barely manage simple tasks, before finally conceding and going home on Thursday. Ideal.

Being ill on the year abroad is awful. I don't have any of my Disney DVD's with me, the German orange juice I bought tastes gross, and it came at the absolute worst time because I had just traded lovely Rome, where I had actual friends and an amazing job, for Berlin where I knew nothing and no one, least of all how to get through all the German bureaucracy, which it turns out is not just a cliche but a very real and very horrible deluge of paperwork to fill out, forms to sign, places to go and people to see.

The first step is to 'anmelden', registering as a German citizen, and this is the gateway to all sorts of other exciting treats; a phone contract, bank account, and a tax number. I'm not overly keen about the latter, since about 20% of my hard-earned intern wages will apparently be going to 'obligatory social security contributions', most bizarrely my 'compulsory pension scheme'. But it all has to be done, which means you have to anmelden, and to anmelden you need to have a permanent German address. Which I did not.

Finding accommodation in Berlin is super competitive - to the extreme that  interviews, and in some cases 'auditions' or 'castings' are held for potential tenants or housemates. Apparently, you can expect to be quizzed on anything from your cooking skills to music taste to political views, and that's assuming you get a vaguely normal landlord who isn't just getting a kick out of the sudden power they've had thrust upon them and has taken it upon themselves to think up a selection of riddles, role play tasks or incriminating ink-blot tests...

I guess it's fair enough that flatmates get to choose who they's like to live with, but it doesn't bode well when your current defining character traits are near-constant sniffing and nose-blowing, and a voice so croaky it sounds like you've been possessed. I'm also using flu as the reason I've been struggling to make sense in any language, let alone scary German with all its grammar and words and stuff.

Sitting wrapped in a Star Wars blanket surrounded by various cough sweets and dubious herbal remedies (all supplied by my well-meaning but slightly odd landlady) was not how I imagined my first week in Berlin, but it can only really get better (please). More, and hopefully less moany, updates to follow soon!   

Stumble Stones: Rome's smallest monuments

Rome is full of huge reminders of the city's ancient past; statues, ruins and buildings all jump out at you, begging to be noticed and admired. But even the quietest streets have stories to tell.

I walk the same route to and from work every day, but it took me two weeks to notice two golden squares among the cobbles of one street. It was raining, so I was keeping my head down, and then I saw them - sort of glinting against a background of grey. So I stopped to look, wondering if they were part of an art installation, or gave information about the building they were placed outside.

The stones are a memorial. They each sum up a life in very few words, haiku-like in their simplicity. 'Here lived Lionello Alatri' reads one; the other is for his wife Evelina. Three dates follow; the date they were born, the date they were deported (to Auschwitz), the date they were murdered.

I found out later that the stones form just a tiny part of a project spanning eight countries, with over 40,000 stones and 84 in Rome. Each commemorates a Holocaust victim, with a simple inscription on the gold-plated stone outside the person's former home.

The artist behind it, Cologne-born Gunter Demning, wanted to give back a name to the victims who had been reduced to a number, returning them symbolically to the home and neighbourhood that was snatched from them. 

They are called Stumbling Stones, Stolpersteine in German, because the idea is that you literally stumble over the slightly raised cobbles, and are forced to remember. Demning says that stooping down to read the details is a kind of bow of respect to the victims.

Today the apartment block where the Alatri's lived is an office building. It's in one of Rome's priciest districts, full of businessmen in suits who seem to be in too much of a rush to notice two golden cobblestones.

I found a website with information about Rome's Holocaust victims, where I found out Lionello had dedicated much of his life working for Jewish institutions, and helped many Jewish refugees who fled to Rome from countries under Nazi control. He also owned a textiles business, but was forced to resign once Italy's racial laws came into force. Shortly afterwards, he and Evelina were taken from their home and deported to Auschwitz. After the week-long journey, they were judged unfit to work on arrival, and were both gassed to death.

It also contains a copy of the last letter Lionello wrote, which was thrown out of the train window and later found by a railway worker. Most of it is very matter-of-fact, and even optimistic. It opens with the words 'We are leaving for Germany' and goes on to explain how much the landlord was to be paid each month for light and gas bills, and various other financial affairs to be put in order.

He tells the reader 'I ask whoever finds this letter, for the sake of humanity, please do these things. Keep courage, like we are.' The letter ends with a sudden burst of emotion: 'I am dismayed.'

Lionello Alatri

The 10 best words in the Italian language

Studying languages at university left me utterly unprepared for real life in Italy, mainly because we focus more on the literature side of things than actually speaking words. I arrived armed with several ways of saying 'alas' in fourteenth century Tuscan, and, for inexplicable reasons, a lot of tree related vocab, but unable to decipher the average Italian menu - hardly the best tools for making friends.

On the plus side, perhaps out of pity for the fact that my chat in Italian was comparable to that of a medieval and socially challenged tree-hugger, most of the Italians I've met have been all too eager to help me learn their language.

Mostly this has involved laughing at my accent (no change there, then) and helping me craft the perfect insults and hand gestures necessary to confront the drivers who try to run me over each day, but I've also learnt lots of new words. Some are more useful than others, some are just really quite funny, and I'm 99% sure none of them were used by Dante. These are my ten favourites so far.

"vestirsi a cipolla" 
= to wear several layers of clothing
This literally means "to dress oneself like an onion", and I first heard it from my host mum in a discussion about English weather. She innocently enquired 'But don't you have to dress like an onion during English winter?', which, frankly, baffled me. At first I thought she'd got us confused with the French (who all go around on bicycles in stripy tops and onion garlands, so I've heard) but eventually it transpired that she was talking about jumpers and winter coats rather than vegetables. Makes sense when you think about it, sort of, and it's a cute little phrase.

"che figo/fico!"
= how cool!
This is used all the time. It literally means 'what a fig!' but in Italian can describe anything from a snazzy scooter to the British monarchy to your outfit. But it is a compliment - you just have to be careful the final 'o' doesn't come out as an 'a', or you're saying something entirely different...

"gattara"
= crazy cat lady
I've seen a fair few candidates for this description whilst out and about in Rome, so it's not surprising they have their own word for it. The Italians already find it hilarious that I'm called Cat (Catherine is a bit much for them as it tends to morph into 'Cazzzzzerina'), so I'm doing everything I can to stop this becoming my new nickname.

"beccare qualcuno"
= to hit on someone
'Beccare' means to peck, so this seems particularly appropriate having witnessed the insistence of certain Italian menfolk.

"avere una faccia tosta"
= to be tough/determined
I've heard this used a lot in the context of young people in Italy at the moment, who are faced with soaring unemployment rates in the wake of the economic crisis. It literally means 'to have a tough face' and sort of makes it sound like the Italians are planning to deal with the problems in their economy by way of a staring contest or something.

"sbrodolone" 
= someone who is a messy eater
I love how Italian manages to convey certain ideas in a single word, usually one which is lots of fun to say. This one comes from the verb 'sbrodolare' meaning to spill or dirty, so together with the suffix 'one' it translates as 'a big spiller'. Brilliant.

"stare fuori come un balcone"
= to be out of it like a balcony
This can mean 'out of your mind' (like the more commonly used 'fuori di testa') but in Rome seems to be used mostly to mean 'drunk'. It reminds me a bit of Michael McIntyre's 'gazeboed' sketch, and I hope to introduce it to the English language.

"limonare" 
= to make out with someone
Granted, 'lemoning' sounds a lot nicer than most English slang for kissing - the abolition of the word 'snog' is long overdue - but that doesn't make it any more normal. An alternative verb I've heard used is 'pomiciare', which literally means 'to polish with a pumice stone' and really doesn't inspire much confidence in Italian kissing techniques.

"precipitevolissimevolmente"
= as fast as you can
One of my favourite things about Italian is the endings which modify word meanings - for example, 'accia' meaning 'bad', so a 'parolaccia' is a swear word and 'linguaccia' is sticking your tongue out, and 'issimo' meaning very'. It sums up the Italian tendency to go a little overboard; nothing's ever 'fine' or 'OK' here, it's always 'benissimo!' or 'bellissimo!' which can be tricky for a Brit to come to terms with, trained as we are to reign in all emotions and apologise at any given opportunity. Apparently this is also the longest word in modern Italian - try saying that precipitevolissimevolmente.

And finally...

"Boh!"
It roughly means 'I don't know', but must be delivered along with your finest dumbfounded expression, palms upward, eyes wide and generally looking as though the person you're conversing with has just asked you to explain string theory. It's so much fun to say, and if you perfect this, you are basically a fully fledged Italian.

Going to the beach in November

Last weekend, my first in Rome, I took a train to Sperlonga beach, determined to make the most out of the last drops of summer. We arrived to find the beach totally empty, with just miles of sandy coast (plus loads of stray cats, and an ice cream vendor who looked at us with mild confusion when we went to buy gelato) for company.

 Although it was still just about what you could call 'beach weather' at the start of November, for Italians it was already way too cold, and by this time they had all retreated back inland. There seems to be a very narrow range of acceptable temperatures for the average Italian, whereby anything below 20 degrees is cause for hibernation, but the August heat sends them rushing to the coast for the sea breezes.

Sperlonga is the beach getaway of choice for most Romans - back in the day, even Emperor Tiberius had a villa there. During the summer months it is crammed with rows of sun beds and umbrellas, which seems to be the norm for Italian beaches; all the popular resorts are absolutely packed over summer during the mass exodus of Italians to the coast.

Different hotels or private beach clubs divide up the beach between them, fililing their patch with rows of deckchairs and sunloungers, and you'd be hard pressed to find a secluded spot. But when we went it was almost deserted, and it was beautiful.

The village itself doesn't seem nearly as commercialised or spoilt as Rimini, remaining on the low key end of the spectrum. A walk up the steep and winding path to the village, which sits on top of a hill, offers a vantage point over the port, various stretches of beach, and miles of ocean.

Unusually for Italy there were brightly coloured flowers everywhere, draped over people's walls and terraces. It looked a bit like the setting of Mamma Mia, and you half expected Meryl Streep to pop out from around a corner and burst into song - but it was silent.

The houses are whitewashed, and take on a subdued orangey glow as the sun sinks lower. We watched the sunset over the water before finally getting the train back to Termini - it only took about an hour and a half, but couldn't have seemed further away.