Rough day...and it's not even 10am

Exhaustion coats my insides as a morning that started at 3:30am finally comes to rest, my bones creaking even as I write. The tears that have made me infamous come to my eyes and I mentally beg the Berlin transit system to get me home soon, where I can cry my years of frustration in peace.
Thoughts of my family, my job, my future, my life, fill me with an inescapable sense of helplessness, uselessness, and the reality that I am entirely without power hangs heavy with dread. I have no solutions, no avenues left to explore except to try again and again, making myself insane by definition, and yet I cannot help it because I have no other choice.
I pray that sleep will help, that fear will recede and solutions will appear to make this better before the next collision occurs & I am useless again.

And for the millionth time I ask myself: is it worth it? But it has to be, for this is me, forming myself, building an emotional future I can count in, and I must continue forward. There is no other direction to move in.
I am powerless.

Anatomy of a Scam

It all started with a housing emergency, the recommendation of a friend, and some minor evidence of truth.  But that was only the beginning. 

I was in a state close to homelessness recently, practically dying for a place to live, but still trying to find the just right one, acting Goldilocks and avoiding ones that were too expensive, not big enough, or housed by freaks.  Most were denying me for one reason or another, usually because I don't speak German or I am "too American", but that's life.

 A friend of mine, C., had found a place in Kruezberg, but then couldn't take this one place that she heard about in the same building.  It sounded strange, she admitted, but she had seen a flat in the same building with this person's name on it, so she thought it might be legitimate.  So, I emailed.  Corinna got back to me, nothing sketchy, so I wasn't suspicious yet.  I asked when I could see it, and she said that she couldn't let me see it because she was out of the country, but could send me some photos.  They are the photos that you are seeing in this post.  To this day, I have no idea where these photos came from, or who really lives in this place. 

I told C. that I thought it was getting a little sketchy, so she suggested skyping with her, which is what she was going to do to check it out, and then seeing what happened.  We made a skype date, and I got online.  Immediately she's messaging me, but not calling me.  I call her, trying to hear a voice, get a face, something to substantiate her claims, but nothing is really working.  She answers, but then immediately hangs up.  Right away I call her on the scam, trying to figure it out.  She instantly gets offended, saying that I should look somewhere else if I am going to be so arrogant - clearly not the appropriate word for the situation, so I know right away that her English isn't good.  I'm about to hang up, but I need a place to live, and it just might be a strange situation.  So I apologize, explain that I'm not about to give my money to someone without knowing that it's a real thing.  So, I start asking some questions to get some more information about her, her situation, and this mysterious flat that she has for rent. 

First I ask where she is, she gives a simple one-word answer.  I ask what she's doing there, again a simple one-word answer.  I ask why she chose to live there, again a simple one-word answer, and a pattern develops which continues throughout our conversation.  For every question, I get a simple one- or two-word answer that simply does not verify that this is a real person.  Also, she's not talking like I would in this situation.  Of course I can talk until the apocalypse comes and saves everyone from my rampant rambling, but there's no information.  She says she's a nanny, and I share that I work in a kindergarten.  No shared stories of working with children, no details.  And people who work with kids are friendly - generally, we love to talk, and love to talk about our kids.  Which ones like which foods, how each sleeps, what each likes to wear.  We love them, and love sharing about them, just as if they were our own.  It's a sickness that you love to be inflicted with.  But here, there is no sharing, no stories, no complaints about parents (another common caregiver indulgence).  I ask more questions, but still get simple answers with as few words as possible.  My suspicion increases, but I just keep remembering that C. saw a flat with this name in her building.  And wouldn't it be just too perfect to live in the same building as my friend C., in this beautiful flat.

But suddenly, we're cut off.  She says that she has to restart her computer, I say ok, and she signs off.  For over an hour.  My internet doesn't work too well in my temporary flat, so I take my computer and move the whole operation to my friend's flat about 30 mins away.  It isn't until I've been there for almost an hour, drinking tea and watching Downton Abbey for almost an hour, that finally Corinna comes back on.  Frustrated by the wait and by the lack of answers for my questions, I finally start asking about the photos, the flat, and the situation of renting it.  Corinna says that her mother owns it, but that she's renting it out. 

As you can see, there are two bedrooms, and she's trying to rent out both of them.  But she's in the UK, she says, so she can't show them.  Remember, up to this point, I have only seen the photos, received and sent emails, and had a skype instant message chat.  No voice conversation, no video chat, no opportunity to view it for myself or verify anything.  But, now out of sheer curiosity, I push forward.  There are two bathrooms, so I ask about them. 
I try to find out which room goes with which bathroom, and Corinna seems to have no idea what I'm talking about.  I ask about what I see in the kitchen.  Does it all come with the flat, or did she take it with her?  What about the clothes and other belongings?  Will they fill the closets so I can't put my stuff in?  She sort of half reassures me that she took them out.

So far, I'm not really believing a word.  Around this time in our conversation, I start chatting on facebook with my friend L., who lives and works at a kindergarten in Munich.  I'm telling her about this really strange conversation I'm having on facebook.  I explain that it's really suspicious, but that Corinna hasn't yet asked for my passport or for any money, so I'm still evaluating.  Generally, scammers always ask for things inappropriately soon, trying to get something out of you so they can steal your money, identity, or both.  L. tells me that it sounds just like someone who stole a whole bunch of her money when she first moved abroad.  I assure L., the woman hasn't asked for anything inappropriate.  L.'s only answer is also one-word: "yet".

As L. is telling me to back off and forget it, I ask Corinna how I would pay her rent, if she's out of town.  She tells me that I would send it through my bank account.  How would I get in the flat?  She would send me the keys via courier.  She neglects to inform me of which would come first: the bank account, or the keys.  After talking to L., I'm a little more willing to believe that the bank account will be exchanged first, and the keys will never arrive.  Upon L.'s suggestion, I say that although the room sounds nice, I really do need to see it first before I can move into it.  Corinna's response: I understand, but I cannot show it since I am in another country, and I have to work so I cannot just come back to Berlin to show it to you.  I then ask the question that I have had on my mind for over an hour: if your mother owns it, and you are the one renting it out while you are out of the country, then why can't your mother show me the flat.  And finally, the story starts to unravel.

Her mother is dead, she claims, and I mentally debate the reasons for putting her mother in the present tense earlier, although clearly her English leaves much to be desired.  I, also mourning a parent, say that I am sorry for her loss, but ask if she doesn't have any friends or other relatives that could show the flat while she's away.  Generally, if you're from a city, you have people there who will do favors for you.  I can immediately list about 20 people off hand who would do this for me in my home city, without question, and of course expecting a favor owed upon my return, which I would happily repay.  What about that, I wonder?  She freaks out, immediately tells me to stop asking questions, to look for another flat, and that she is no longer interested in renting to someone like me, the same claims she made earlier in the conversation when I said that I was not interested in a scam, but a legitimate flat being rented.  Using her mother's "death" as a reason, she stops all communication, and is no longer interested in me, but I, of course, am now completely disinterested in anything else "she" has to say to me.

L. hears all of this, and is just as fascinated as I am.  Asking for the skype info, she creates a fake skype account to test "Corinna's" story: that she is a native German/Berliner who moved to the UK and needs to rent out her flat.  L.'s fluent German tells the whole story: all of "her" German is clearly google translated.  Whoever she is, she's not German or from the UK or the US.  And L. suspects, just as I did when we were talking about working with children, that she is in fact a he.  It's hard to explain why, but there is just a certain way of talking that is clearly not female.  All my suspicions are confirmed, and I immediately block "Corinna" on skype, and delete "her" emails, until now, when I resurrected them for the photos for this story.

But what about the flat in C.'s building that had the same name?  Clearly, this person stole their name, claimed that their flat was hers, and started trying to rent it through the internet, where you can create an entire identity for free, no waiting.  I immediately bring C. into the conversation, and we're still working on contacting the woman in her building about getting the police involved on the possible theft of her identity.  I hope nothing was truly lost on her part, and of course hope against hope that no one believed the scammer and got conned out of a great deal of money, but it is possible. 

So if you are looking for a place to live, remember to ask crucial questions, look for suspicious behavior, check on everything, and do not ever give your money, passport, or any information about yourself until it's a sure thing.  Even if it seems legit, check again and again.  And really, just don't ever rent or buy a place to live without seeing it first.  Unfortunately, that's how darling L. lost a great deal of money, and how I almost got caught in, too.  It's better to be safe than sorry, kids, and in a dangerous world like this one, be careful who you trust. 

Brief Respite in Praha

The champagne is flowing, beer bottles are found everywhere, and you can only find the hard stuff in the bathroom, secretly distributed to those in the know.  No, it's not New York in the 20s - it's Prague, right now, in 2012.  What, you say?  There's a prohibition going on?  Why yes, yes there is.

Currently in Prague, you can only find alcohol below 20%, unless you happen upon a party with someone who had stocked up, or you find some in a bathroom somewhere (true story - there actually was tequila in the bathroom at a party I went to).  Why?  Illegal distributors are putting methanol into the liquor, and even making it look like the real stuff.  20 deaths in 2 weeks means that they cannot know for sure who the culprit is.  Absolut Vodka is not as absolute as it originally appeared, and people have been dangerously ill as a result.  The Czech solution?  To lose thousands and thousands of dollars a day, but save lives, by prohibiting alcohol over 20%, until the culprit can be found and alcoholics can resume business as usual.

In the meantime, the shelves at bars are empty, bereft of the hard liquors we've all become accustomed to, and I feel like I'm back in romantic Europe, where gentlemen buy us ladies bottles upon bottles of champagne (true, although technically sparkling wine), and the journey toward drunken ridiculousness is a little bit longer, although no less ridiculous, and no less wretched the next day.

Prague is currently a world without cocktails, and giving locals and visitors a small taste of what it might have been like in 1920s-era prohibition, where drunkenness was hard-won and booze was only found near a toilet.  Every outing seems strangely innocent, and every sip of hard liquor seems so secretive and naughty, adding an element of the clandestine to what would usually be just a simple party.

Now, though, I'm back in Berlin.  Back to my new home, where I'm still trying to make a mark and get to know the natives, trying to fit into a new place where I'm not sure I quite belong.  At least I have my memories of my glass constantly being refilled with bubbly, and dancing like a manic in a tiny underground club in Prague. 

An unebelievable connection from an unexpected source

When I walked in, I was expecting a young Spanish man looking for a flatmate, loud and exclamatory, ad the Spanish often are, so the older, balding man caught me by surprise.  Unlike other flat viewing appointments I had attended, he wanted to meet in a cafe before bringing me into the flat to see the room. He spoke broken English but had much to say. Although I didn't know it at the time, he was immediately reading my energy, learning about me, and understanding me from the way I held myself, my face, my hands, my composure.  This is someone that you cannot hide from, that you cannot easily deceive. He would later tell me, his almost wild eyes directly at mine, that I needed to relax, despite my communicativeness, that I needed to know that I can control the situation, and that the situation does not control me. It would quickly change into an experience took hold of me, and shocked the communication right out of my mouth.  

By trade he is a karate sensei and a dedicated yogi. Right away he told me about the chakra block I had in my neck, that he could tell from my face that I blocked things and needed to release it. He said he could tell me about my life from my hand, and I thought he was full of it. He had me breathe, open my hand, relax it, and then show it to him. He could tell that I was communicative, but not always open. That I left to distance myself from my family, and that there was a separation between my parents in some way, and that my mother was hurting. He knew that I had left a good life at home, and had moved to find independence.  He didn't tell my future or even want to. He looked at my palm and my wrist and said that much of my life was still unwritten, that I was starting a new journey and it had not come together yet. He showed me his hand: his life had already been written, and he was glad for it. He does to want to accept money for his work, but to simply give. He could tell that I was a nice, optimistic, giving person. He said that I wanted to help people, he could tell, but that I had to relax and meditate on my life to find the peace I was looking for. 

He didn't know me personally, but yet he still knew about me. He said that my aura was yellow and that it should be blue, that he could tell that I knew what my problems were, and that this was a good thing. The first step, he says, is to know. That so many people go through life, not knowing anything about themselves, not thinking about their lives, but that I have to be open. I need to open myself up if I want to find the experiences that I'm searching for. He also said that he wanted someone in his flat who could water his plants, and that he wanted me to have more spiritual discipline. 

I went to his flat, to check out the room for rent. He put his arm around me, and assured me again that I had a good energy. In his flat, he showed me how he would work with my chakras and informed me that he would have to rebalance them and cleanse my aura before I could live there. His generosity was evident, as was his clear discipline in a lovey but immaculate flat. On the way down to the street, he told me that  even if I didn't want to live there, if I wantd to work on my meditation, he would be happy to. He just wants to give to the world, he said, that's all he wants. 

I don't think I could live there, having my aura discussed on a daily basis, but I know that i will see him again, if only to reclaim the feeling of power I had after meeting him. Not a power over another person, or a power earned by force, but a power of self simply commanded, shoulders back, head high, mind at peace. The situation does not control me, and I if can remember that for a long time, I think I will experience more than just a cleansed aura.