timeonline internet cafe, moscow 4:54am

I recently received this email from a guy I met when I first moved to China back in January 2003. He left not 1 month later but the friendship that we forged has left a lasting impression. Amazingly he was only 18 at the time - amazing because although he was locked in a somewhat typically juvenile search for identity, he also possessed an astonishing wisdom which seemed born of a prolonged and torturous personal struggle with powerful inner demons. It's my belief he was/is/will soon be an amazing artist, but as with any truly great artist, the journey to self-actualisation will be painful (a cliche perhaps, but one I happen to put some stock in).

Anyway, in the DVD candy-land of Shanghai, Sam taught me much about his most beloved directors and expanded my burgeoning film vocabulary 3-fold. I remember long nights watching pirated movies I never would have attempted were it not for his stern admonishments that they were 'imperative' to my humanitarian education. There were equally endless discussions about art and beauty, the odd tear over the futility of it all and countless salt & pepper chicken dinners at the 'Red restaurant' across the river. Combined with work, a bitter winter and the exhaustion of international relocation, it was an incredibly intense time - but those are the best aren't they?!

I'm posting this for a couple of reasons:
1. I love getting proper emails - I am so sick of these 5 line, jargon-filled, emoticon punctuated excuses for human interchange - this is an example of how communication amongst friends should be.
2. He invited his readers to share.
3. I think it gives a tiny insight into the mind of a beautiful person, & that's gotta make somebody smile.
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Dear Reader,

I am writing this in my notebook in the expectation that I might finally be able to bring you some comprehensive news the next time I'm in an internet cafe. I apologize for not reporting back to you all sooner, but as I'm sure the more productive of you know, often you're too busy living life to find the time to write about it. At present I am traveling on the Berlin-Moscow Express (via Frankfurt, Warsaw, Brest & Minsk). It is mid-morning on the second day of the journey. Judging by the landscape outside my cabin window and an estimation of our position based on the time traveled so far, I'd say that I'm somewhere in rural Belarus. The first signs of the European Winter have started appearing. Patches of tall grass have been laid flat by frost and broken ice floats down the lakes. Otherwise it's a constant image of the same brown fields and villages I've been seeing since I woke up.

I'm sharing a sleeper cabin with an old German man. In fact I seem to be in the carriage for old German men, all in their navy tracksuits. For some reason my traveling companion Jess & I were assigned separate rooms in different carriages so we only meet occasionally in the smoking rooms located at the ends of every carriage. The train itself is quite old. Probably commissioned at the same time as most of its passengers. We haven't seen another young person onboard so train travel must be no less expensive than flying nowadays, or its just terribly old fashioned. I quite like it so far. Each cabin contains three seats that collapse at the end of each day and create a foundation for the bunk beds which fold out from the wall. Its cramped but comfortable, and although the hostesses speak no English, they're never too busy to stop and mime their instructions to you. My only complaint so far concerns the constant interruptions by border guards during the night. If you've ever wanted to add a few more stamps to your passport I highly recommend taking a train through Eastern Europe.

We left Berlin at lunchtime yesterday to no public fanfare. We'd spent the previous two nights sleeping on the floor of a young German hippie named Niko. That made it eight nights in a row we haven't paid for accommodation. Jess is a member of a website called couchsurfing.com. Hundreds of people from all over the world advertise their spare rooms and couches to fellow members. You just send them an e-mail asking if its available and they"ll usually get back to you with an answer and directions. Before Niko we spent six nights with a British ex-pat named Paul, whose name and residential status were not the only similarities he shared with another Paul I'd met in China.

Although this was technically our last day we didn't do anything worth writing about, so instead I'll pretend Monday was. I had reserved it for some last minute museum-hopping without realising that if Sundays were the retailer's day off, Mondays were the curators'. Jess and I ended up wandering aimlessly around the streets of West Berlin before deciding to kill our remaining time there at the movies. The only thing playing of any interest to both of us was Broken Flowers. That's the new one by Jim Jarmusch. I'd actually seen it alone on one of my first nights in town and left feeling dissapointed and confused. As some of you might know this is a very unusual reaction for me to have to a new Jarmusch film but I couldn't help feeling that he'd made dud, though I wasn't exactly sure why.

As I tried to explain to the english speaking desk clerk who had earlier complimented me on my choice of film I thought it had something to do with the ending. In nearly all, no all, of Jarmusch's films the character/s go on a journey. Literally. Usually a roadtrip, one time an existential journey into death. They never have conclusive endings these journeys, but they do end for now and leave you to imagine that the character continues their journey foreverafter. But Broken Flowers just seemed to stop. The mystery the film is based around remains unsolved and the situation of Bill Murray's character doesn't change at all, which seemed like lazy writng on Jarmusch's behalf. I seemed to be alone in these thoughts however, and being a fan I was curious to see it again and prove my first impression wrong. By the time we'd walked to the Original English Version screening cinemas in Potsdamer Platz I'd decided I was wrong and that I did like the film. My theory about the ending was like a square duvet: it kept me warm but it didn't really cover everything. Because Murray's character does go on a roadtrip, and that journey does come to a typically unconclusive end... There's a line in an earlier Jarmusch film, Down By Law, where Robert Benigni says, "Its a sad and beautiful world", which is an apt description of Jarmusch's ouvre, or at least my attraction to it. I think he's always made marginal comedies. But Broken Flowers, which is being marketed as a sort-of romantic comedy, is just sad. It doesn't have a bad ending, just a depressing one and I realized thats why I had such an uncertain reaction to it. After a second viewing I'd ceratinly recommend you see it (when it comes out there on Boxing Day). Just don't expect a Dead Man, or a Strange than Paradise for that matter. Another film I saw there was A History of Violence. That's the new one from David Cronenberg and I'd recommend it to everyone without any hesitation. Although I'd also advise you miss it if you're not into blood and guns. Which would be a shame because its a very intelligent and interesting film.

I did other things in Berlin besides going to the movies though. I arrived at Tegel around noon on the 17th of October. I had no instructions other than to catch the x9 bus to the Zoologischer Garten. I had no bed reserved for that night so I ended up staying in the youth hostel directly opposite the station. I decided to spend the afternoon walking about with the vain hope of stumbling onto some of those big romantic monuments. The first thing I discovered was footpaths as wide as roads So wide there was room for a separate bike path closer to the curb. And trees. In West Berlin oaks line the streets and occasionally replace the buildings in the numerous parks and playgrounds. It was the exact opposite of Kuala Lumpur where I spent my day in transit becoming hopelessly lost. The less said about it the better. I followed my eyes down these footpaths, following the ever present roadsigns to infamous Berlin suburbs, constantly changing my direction. Later on I would realise that I never did make it to Potzdamer Platz, Kreuzberg or Mitte that afternoon, but only manage to make a loop of the very centre of Berlin and indeed discover Checkpoint Charlie, the Brandenburg Gate and the Siegessaule along the way.

That night I decided I'd much rather be in East Berlin so the next day I left the West and after a series of false starts to a morning that served no other benefit than to teach me never to wander around a city with your pack looking for someplace to put it, I settled into another youth hostel in Mitte. From this hostel I procured a map of inner cuty Berlin that was to become invaluable during my time there. For amidst the site seeing locations were shaded patches superimposed around sections of each suburb indicating the hotspot for restaurants, shops and clubs in that area. This guide was rarely proved wrong and introduced me to the most appropriate parts of Berlin. Like Mitte; I imagine people still live in Mitte. Maybe in the side streets or further out towards Wedding, because they don't appear to live in the heart anymore. The centre of Mitte is all flagship stores for international fashion brands, boutique book stores, private galleries and independent cinemas. Apparently it used to be where it was at back in the day but has since gone through a period of gentrification that saw all the pretty young things and their milieu forced further east. That might be true, after going further east myself it does seem to be, but I still found Mitte delightful.

The next day I moved onto the next hotspot: Prenzlauer Berg. First stop, the tweest cafe in the world. I've already described it to one of you personally, but as for the rest of you, I'll just say that if I was ever to open a cafe I'd steal most of my ideas for it from this place. The rest of Prenzlauer Berg was similarly inspired. I've never seen so many small cafes and unbelievably well stocked, and accordingly priced, second hand stores; never knew that there existed somewhere record stores solely for the sale of 70s dub vinyl. There was a community run cinema screening Jean Luc Godard and Ken Russell retrospectives, and an independent cinema called Blow Up, whose interior was a floor to ceiling recreation of the original film poster for the Antonioni classic the place is named after. They seemed to be screening the latest release from a well known director, currently Broken Flowers, as well as a selection of earlier Jarmusch releases and other films that are a noted influence on his own work, ie- Nick Ray's Rebel Without a Cause. The program seemed to run for a few weeks before being replaced by another one. It looked like Terry Gilliam was next. The number of times I came across establishments like these was overwhelming. In my whole time in Berlin I only made it to one museum and a handful of the private galleries. I didn't feel like I needed to. These inner city suburbs were like living museums. Paintings were wheatpasted across their walls. Graffiti was visible on everyone doorway and rooftop. Stores were inviting you to come in and peruse the cream of twentieth century cultural history, past and present, for nothing. There was a arts festival being advertised called Displaced, which may or may not have coincided with such strange sites as a young Japanese woman dancing and singing to the passersby from her home in a vacant shop window, and a collection of the most delicate illustrations of imaginary flora and fauna on display in a foreman's demountable in a construction site. I didn't get out any nights either. I didn't see the wild life that Berlin seems to be renowned for. But I saw the evidence of its large subcultures existence everyday in the presence of these little niche businesses and abundant design studios.

What I found was a clean, beautiful city of six story buildings, a high standard of living, excellent public transport system and handsome, respectful and stylish citizens. I have a feeling that by my trip's end I might have found Paris more beautiful, Moscow more bewildering, Venice more enchanting, but I won't find another European city I'd like to live in more than Berlin. There are so many more tales to be told. I could write a memoir as long as this for everyday I spent in Berlin, for every other suburb I discovered, but I think its best for both of us that it ends up being compressed like this. Since I started writing this the beds have been put away, my room mate has disembarked and Jess has moved in. She's listening to her Iriver and staring out the window. I think I'll join her. But before I sign my name I'd like to ask that you write me back. Don't expect to receive a reply, but Russia promises to be a lonely and difficult experience. So please, if you're applying for or exiting a school, moving to another country, or expecting a baby, tell me about it. It would really make my day. By the same token please feel free to pass this on to any other relatives or friends you think might be interested in reading it.

OK. My love, greetings, salutations or whatever it is that's relevant to you,
Sam.